LAND'S   END 


WHEN   THEY   WALKED   HOME,   IT  WAS    BETWEEN   TWO   LINES   OF   PEOPLE 


Land's  End 


AND   OTHER   STORIES 


BY 
WILBUR   DANIEL   STEELE 

Author  of  "STOKM" 


Harper  £ff  Brothers  Publishers 
New    York  and  London 


LAND'S  END 


Copyright,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  August,  1918 

H-S 


/an 


To 
Margaret    Thurston    Steele 


M681624 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION ix 

LAND'S  END 1 

THE  WOMAN  AT  SEVEN  BROTHERS 29 

WHITE  HORSE  WINTER 60 

DOWN  ON  THEIR  KNEES 84 

THE  KILLER'S  SON 121 

A  DEVIL  OF  A  FELLOW 154 

THE  YELLOW  CAT 179 

A  MAN'S  A  FOOL 210 

KED'S  HAND 249 

"ROMANCE"  275 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  "A  White  Horse  Winter"  was  first 
published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  1912 
it  was  at  once  realized  by  discriminating  readers 
that  a  new  talent  of  great  promise  had  appeared 
in  American  short-story  literature.  In  the  six 
years  which  have  followed  the  publication  of  this 
story,  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele  has  pursued  a  course 
of  uncompromising  fidelity  to  his  literary  ideals, 
publishing  comparatively  few  stories,  but  main 
taining  a  standard  of  imaginative  reality  which 
has  slowly,  but  surely,  deepened  in  an  art  which 
bears  all  the  signs  of  permanence. 

If  I  were  asked  to  indicate  the  single  quality 
by  which  Mr.  Steele's  stories  rightly  claim  their 
place  in  our  literature,  I  should  say  that  it  was 
by  virtue  of  his  sensitive  fidelity  to  the  more  abid 
ing  romance  of  ordinary  life.  While  it  is  true 
that  his  pictorial  sense  of  atmospheric  values 
serves  to  define  the  terms  on  which  he  is  willing 
to  render  human  character  in  conflict,  the  essen 
tial  merit  of  his  findings  is  due  to  the  impartial 
view  which  he  takes  of  circumstance,  an  im 
partiality  as  unconscious  and  as  real  as  that  of  a 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

child  before  daily  happenings.  It  is,  perhaps, 
this  very  joy  in  apprehending  spiritual  values 
without  self-consciousness,  as  a  child  apprehends 
them,  which  has  led  him  to  set  down  what  he 
has  seen  most  often  in  the  words  of  a  boy,  to 
whom  wonder  reveals  more  of  the  truth  than 
self -analysis,  and  to  whom  delight  in  a  story  is 
a  sufficient  preoccupation,  without  premature 
analysis  of  his  own  human  relation  to  what  he 
sees. 

Mr.  Steele's  pictorial  sense  is  somewhat  akin 
to  that  of  Fromentin  in  Dominique,  though  less 
hard  by  •  virtue  of  his  sense  of  wonder.  The 
stories  collected  in  this  volume  have,  in  fact, 
a  quality  of  romantic  escape  rare  in  our  American 
life,  and  so  correspondingly  rare  in  our  American 
literature.  Landscape,  with  its  human  fore 
ground,  gives  Mr.  Steele  a  sense  of  liberation,  so 
that  it  is  a  refuge  for  him  from  the  impact  of 
facts,  so  falsely  called  reality  by  most  men.  He 
is,  therefore,  a  romantic  realist,  who  refuses  to 
escape  from  life,  but  contents  himself  by  making 
a  truce  with  it.  If  his  stories  reveal  a  certain 
nostalgia,  it  is  a  personal  nostalgia,  and  it  does 
not  color  his  interpretation  of  life.  You  feel 
that  his  quarrel  is  with  the  matter-of-fact  rathei 
than  with  civilization. 

In  this  respect  he  is  to  be  contrasted  with 
Synge,  though  there  is  much  resemblance  in 
other  ways  between  the  two  writers.  To  Synge, 
the  Aran  Islands  were  a  refuge  from  civilization, 

x 


INTRODUCTION 

and  his  art  was  almost  a  protective  coloration 
against  life.  In  our  crowded  mercantile  civiliza 
tion,  Mr.  Steele  must  have  been  tempted  fre 
quently  to  a  similar  reaction,  and,  like  Synge, 
he,  too,  might  have  found  what  he  sought  in  a 
more  primitive  and  brutal  life,  with  its  franker 
valuation  of  motive  and  relationship.  But  in 
stead  of  seeking  for  an  American  Aran,  he  has 
found  the  relief  of  self-expression  in  a  curious 
and  searching  simplification  of  life,  which  he  has 
set  against  a  more  familiar  background. 

Behind  the  complications  which  his  men  and 
women  weave  for  one  another  looms  the  eternal 
but  ever-changing  pattern  of  the  sea.  The  pas 
sionate  heart  of  the  waters  pulses  in  all  these 
tales,  never  forgotten  yet  never  fully  realized, 
an  inscrutable  mystery  with  all  the  blind  and 
irresistible  power  of  destiny  molding. lives  to  an 
unseen  end. 

It  is  as  if  men  and  women  were  unmindful  of 
all  life  not  directed  to  the  sea's  ends,  and  as  if 
they  fulfilled  these  ends  inevitably,  and  often 
against  their  dearest  desires.  Here  is  their  ro 
mantic  escape  and  at  the  same  time  their  greatest 
spiritual  fulfilment. 

Mr.  Steele 's  apprehension  of  human  life  in  its 
relation  to  natural  forces  is  from  a  different  angle 
than  that  of  Joseph  Conrad.  The  latter  sets 
man  against  an  eternal  background  remote  from 
common  experience,  and  reveals  him  translated 
from  his  fellows  by  the  simplification  of  space 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 

and  time  experienced  by  those  who  follow  the  sea. 
Mr.  Steele's  preoccupation  is  with  a  more  gener 
ally  shared  background,  in  which  wonder  is  born 
of  ordinary  things,  whose  strangeness  has  been 
forgotten  through  constant  surface  familiarity. 
He  finds  as  much  drama  in  the  dory  life  of 
Portuguese  fishermen  on  Cape  Cod  as  Conrad 
has  found  in  the  southern  seas,  and  as  much 
detachment  from  circumstance,  save  in  so  far 
as  it  is  transformed  by  insight  into  a  new  world 
of  strange,  forgotten  things. 

His  men  and  women  part  for  a  day  only  to 
find  the  world  changed  upon  their  return.  But 
the  drama  of  a  day  arises  naturally  out  of  a  long 
past  of  slowly  accumulating  experience,  and  this 
background  of  a  suddenly  -recalled  past  is  most 
often  the  moving  force  of  his  situation. 

Few  writers  show  such  economy  in  the  use  of 
their  material.  You  feel  that  all  of  Mr.  Steele's 
stories  develop  from  a  single  picture  intensely 
realized  by  the  artist,  and  that  it  is  his  spirit  of 
inquiry  brooding  over  the  implications  of  this 
picture  which  has  eventually  constituted  his 
story.  He  is  a  master  of  color,  and  in  a  few  care 
ful  strokes  presents  the  same  natural  background 
for  the  passion  of  his  characters  that  many 
novelists  require  several  chapters  to  reveal. 

Most  of  his  stories  are  really  fifth  acts,  in 
which  the  drama's  previous  development  is  re 
vealed  by  suggestion.  It  is  the  crisis  in  every 
human  relation  which  interests  him  most,  but  his 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

implicit  realization  of  what  has  gone  before  in 
evitably  suggests  that  his  finer  success  in  fiction 
will  be  won  as  a  novelist. 

His  first  novel,  Storm,  had  all  the  fine  qualities 
of  his  short  stories,  but  its  episodic  character  sug 
gested  that  it  was  a  prelude  to  short-story  writing 
rather  than  the  deliberately  wrought  craftsman 
ship  of  a  novelist.  In  the  past  few  years  Mr. 
Steele's  technique  has  tended  more  and  more 
toward  that  of  a  novelist,  particularly  in  his 
stories  of  Urkey  Island,  in  which  his  canvas  is 
larger  and  more  detailed  in  its  realization  of  a 
New  England  community. 

It  is  always  hazardous  to  prophesy  the  future 
course  of  an  admirable  writer,  but  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  the  rich,  human  embodiment  of  the 
stories  collected  in  this  volume  assure  them  a 
permanence  in  our  literature  for  their  imagina 
tive  reality,  their  warm  color,  and  their  finality 
of  artistic  execution.  Almost  without  exception 
they  represent  the  best  that  is  being  accom 
plished  in  America  to-day  by  a  literary  artist. 
But  Mr.  Steele  will  never  be  elected  to  an  Acad 
emy.  Such  is  the  fate  of  all  pioneers. 

EDWARD  J.  O'BRIEN. 

STE.-ANNE-DES-MONTS,  P.  Q., 

July  8,  1918. 


LAND'S   END 


LAND'S  END 

There  was  a  long,  loose-boarded  porch  with 
pillars  across  the  front  of  the  house  and  above  it  a 
second  porch  open  to  the  sky,  serving  the  "  plas 
tered  tenement"  advertised  on  a  sign-board  flap 
ping  beside  the  gate.  Summer  visitors  some 
times  took  the  plastered  tenement — the  families 
of  small  tradesmen  in  towns  at  the  head  of  the 
cape:  people  too  poor  to  go  elsewhere.  They 
never  stayed  long,  and  they  never  came  back 
another  season  because  they  could  not  bear  the 
tragic  beauty  of  the  outlook  from  that  hilltop — 
the  ultimate  decay  of  a  continent.  The  sands 
were  run,  even  with  the  door-step ;  after  that  the 
land  was  no  longer  like  itself,  but  already  half  in 
the  grip  of  ocean.  Tide  channels  webbed  the 
marshes;  there  were  innumerable  little  pools, 
clean-rimmed  as  bath-tubs,  deep,  clear,  filled 
with  tiny,  silvery  fish;  the  place  was  rotten  with 
quicksands.  A  narrow  thread  of  breakwater 
stretching  across  it  seemed  like  the  last,  hopeless 
recourse  of  the  beaten  physician:  the  moribund 
land  roused  itself  once  at  the  end  in  a  huddle 
of  sand-bars,  and  then  there  was  nothing  but 
the  ocean  and  a  bell. 

The  woman  on  the  bed  in  the  plastered  tenement 
was  looking  into  the  candle  flame  and  listening  to 
the  bell:  a  faint,  repeated  note  borne  in  the 
bosom  of  the  wind.  She  had  wanted  the  candle 
lit,  although  a  shaft  of  pale  magenta  still  flowed 
in  through  the  western  window  to  make  a  ghost 
of  the  wick. 

2 


LAND'S  END 

She  might  be  twenty-five  years  of  age,  or  forty 
— it  would  be  hard  to  say  now.  She  was  of 
rather  slight  figure,  to  judge  by  the  head  and 
shoulders  propped  against  the  pillows  and  the 
vague  outlines  folded  into  the  bedclothes.  Look 
ing  at  her  face,  one  saw  only  the  eyes  at  first. 
Large,  clear,  quick-moving  between  the  low- 
arched  lids,  brown  almost  to  golden  and  yet 
carrying  an  illusion  of  great  depth,  all  the  vital 
aspirations  seemed  to  have  come  to  center  there, 
and  the  replica  of  the  draughty  candle,  flickering 
either  orb,  seemed  at  home  in  them,  as  if  they 
had  been  used  to  flame  and  wind.  Save  for  a 
sanguine  feather  on  either  cheek-bone,  the  rest 
of  the  face  was  glass  white,  the  features  tooled  to 
a  fineness  so  exquisite  that  they  seemed  trans 
parent  and  almost  luminous. 

She  was  talking  to  herself. 

"I've  been  so  happy  here  with  the  sun  and  the 
stars  and  the  wind  and  the  bell.  Sweet  bell,  so 
patient,  so  kind,  calling  to  me,  day  in,  day  out! 
I  wonder  if  the  bell  knows  about  me.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Sparrow,  where  is  the  bell?" 

Mrs.  Sparrow,  middle-aged,  worn  and  fleshy, 
answered  from  her  rocker  in  a  shadowed  corner: 

' '  The  bell,  dearie?  Why,  it's  out  to  the  Head, 
dearie." 

"The  Head?" 

* '  Yes.  The  end — b'yond  the  marshes,  y'know. 
B'yond  ever'thin7,  dearie." 

"Oh!    The  end!    So  if  I  could  go  out  to  the 
3 


LAND'S  END 

end,  then  I  could  see  the  bell.  I  wonder,  I 
wonder — 

"Hush,  dearie!"  Mrs.  Sparrow  got  up,  pat 
ting  out  her  apron  and  glancing  nervously  at  the 
bed  from  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  "Now,  now! 
Just  be  quiet,  dearie.  There!  I  hear  Mr.  Men- 
dal  coming  up  now."  She  was  already  busy  with 
her  shawl  and  bonnet,  relieved  by  the  footfalls 
beyond  the  door,  ascending  slowly  and  muffled 
by  the  crazy  rockings  of  the  house.  "I  hope 
y'll  feel  smarter  'n  the  mornm/,"  she  cast 
over  her  shoulder,  exactly  as  she  had  cast  it 
each  evening  for  nearly  a  month,  and,  avoid 
ing  the  wistful  negative  from  the  bed,  stepped 
out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

On  the  landing  she  confronted  Mr.  Mendal. 

"She  says  how  her  money's  all  gone,"  she  an 
nounced  in  a  worried  undertone.  "She  'xpected 
to  go  a  week  back,  she  says." 

She  would  have  liked  to  be  an  idealist,  this 
Widow  Sparrow;  she  would  have  loved  not  to 
have  to  think  of  the  money  part.  Looking  at 
Mr.  Mendal  now,  with  his  stooping  shoulders 
mammoth  in  the  blown  candle-light  and  his  face, 
brown-bearded,  kind  and  unharried,  a  sense  of 
hopelessness  came  over  her.  Mr.  Mendal  would 
never  understand. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "But  if  you  was  t'  have 
four  to  home,  an'  the  oldest  too  young  yet  t' 
fish!"  She  peered  up  at  him.  "  'Tain't  's  if  I 

4 


LAND'S  END 

knew  the  first  thin'  about  'er — where  she  come 
from — if  she's  got  folks  or  no!" 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  the  money,  Mother 
Sparrow."  Mendal's  voice  was  rich  and  quiet. 
"  How  does  she  seem  to-night?" 

* '  Oh,  dear,  'bout  the  same.  Waitin'  to  be  took. 
I  declare  she  don't  seem  t'  worrit  much,  though. 
She  begins  t'  talk  queer,  though — talkin'  'bout 
goin'  out  t'  the  Head  an'  the  like.  It  give  me  a 
start  t'  hear  'er." 

"  She's  been  out  on  the  porch?" 

"Yes,  a  while.  I  carried  'er  in  'bout  an  hour 
ago.  She  don't  seem  t'  care  much  what — " 

"Yes,  yes.  Well,  I  guess  that's  all.  Good 
night,  Mother  Sparrow." 

Entering  the  room,  he  drew  the  rocker  from 
its  corner  and  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  leaning  a 
little  forward  with  his  hands  hanging  between 
his  knees. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "and  how  are  you  to-night?" 

"Ah,  dear  friend,  dear  friend,  you  know  how  I 
am — this  last  night." 

He  stared  at  his  wrists. 

"Pshaw!  You've  said  that  every  night  the 
past  week." 

"Yes,  my  time  was  up  almost  a  week  ago. 
I've  stolen  a  week,  Mendal — a  week  of  sweet 
ness." 

Her  eyes  went  back  to  the  candles,  two  of  them 
now,  on  the  wash-stand.  Mendal's  chin  sank 

farther  into  his  neck,  and  his  beard,  square  and 

5 


LAND'S   END 

brown  and  thick,  covered  his  chest.  Their  shad 
ows  danced  over  the  bare  plaster  beyond  the  bed, 
huge  and  without  shape.  Both  seemed  to  be 
listening  to  the  wind  and  the  clattering  shutters 
and  the  bell:  both  were  thinking  of  what  was 
to  come. 

The  woman  began  again,  her  voice  low  and 
powerless  and  yet  full  of  a  kind  of  color. 

"It's  like  a  balcony  here  hung  over  the  edge, 
beyond  noise  and  hurry  and  naggings  and  heart 
breaks,  little  loves,  tiny  hates;  beyond  time  and 
space,  Mendal:  beyond  everything  but  the  bell 
and  the  end.  I — I've  been  wondering — "  She 
got  herself  out  of  that  with  a  visible  effort  and 
drew  one  hand  from  beneath  the  bedclothes. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  hold  my  hand,  Men 
dal?"  she  asked,  with  the  queerest  white  smile 
twisting  her  lips.  He  leaned  forward  awk 
wardly  and  covered  the  white  hand  with  his  own 
brown  one. 

"Mendal,  I  wonder  if  you  know  how — how — 
if  you  know  what  you've  been  to  me.  I  must 
seem  so  weird  to  you  down  here  at  the  end  of 
things :  you've  always  known  everything  so  well, 
you  people  here — your  neighbors,  your  plastered 
tenement,  your  marshes,  your  yesterday,  your 
to-morrow.  Dropping  out  of  nowhere  as  I  have, 
unexplained,  nameless  even,  I  must  have  seemed 
like  a— like— " 

"Like  an  angel!"  There  was  a  curious  harsh 
ness  in  the  man's  voice. 


LAND'S  END 

"Is  that  why  you've  been  so  good  and  never 
asked?  I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  been  so 
good,  Mendal,  never  once  to  have  tried  to  pry 
or  peep.  It  was  raining  that  night.  Oh,  yes,  I 
can  remember  how  hard  it  rained.  And  you 
were  driving  along  the  road  in  your  buggy  in  the 
rain,  thinking  of — what  were  you  thinking  of, 
Mendal?" 

"I  was  thinking  how  late  it  was." 

"And  then  what  did  you  say  when  you  saw 
me  in  the  road  ahead,  staggering  along,  drenched 
and  crazy  and  ready  to  die?" 

"I  said,  'My  God!" 

"Yes,  I  remember  hearing  your  voice  before  I 
went  down — other  voices,  too.  Were  there  some 
men  with  you,  Mendal?" 

"Yes,  some  neighbors.  They  got  out  and 
walked." 

"And  you  brought  me  up  here!  Why  did  you 
bring  me  up  here,  Mendal,  instead  of  taking  me 
on  into  the  village?" 

"The  village  is  noisy  sometimes  when  the  fish 
come  in;  the  carts  on  the  cobbles,  children  play 
ing,  and  all.  And  you  were  sick  and  frightened." 

"Frightened!  Oh,  how  terribly  frightened, 
Mendal,  at  first.  But  not  for  a  long  time  now — 
only  peaceful  and  happy,  watching  the  sunlight 
drift  across  the  wall,  listening  to  the  bell  out 
there  at  the  last  end,  calling— 

Mendal  got  up  suddenly  to  trim  one  of  the 
candles  which  was  guttering.  After  that  he 


LAND'S  END 

moved  about  the  chamber,  his  heavy,  square-toed 
boots  clanking  on  the  boards,  his  fingers  twining 
behind  his  back,  and  his  shadow  skipping  mon 
strously  from  corner  to  corner.  He  stood  staring 
for  a  moment  out  of  the  window  that  had  grown 
black :  then  he  wheeled  around  abruptly. 

"  How  would  you  like  a  little  music  to-night  for 
a  change?" 

The  woman  started  to  shake  her  head,  and 
then,  seeing  by  his  face  how  he  wanted  it,  she 
smiled  and  nodded.  He  left  the  room,  to  return 
after  a  few  minutes  carrying  a  phonograph,  a 
black-enameled  horn,  and  a  handful  of  records. 

"  You  see,  we're  not  so  countrified  down  here  at 
the  Head,  after  all.  It's  a  great  comfort;  makes 
things  more  equal.  I  can  sit  down  and  listen  to 
Caruso  or  Farnoe  sing  here  as  well  as  your  man 
in  New  York  City  can.  Now,  here's  one  called 
the  'Mad  Song,'  for  instance — 'Mad  Song  from 
"  Lucia  "'it  is." 

It  was  Farnoe  singing  there  in  the  shiny  horn. 
The  record  was  old  and  badly  marred  in  places; 
and  yet,  with  all  that,  perhaps  that  "Rose  of  the 
World"  had  never  sung  her  "Mad  Song" 
against  a  background  like  this  to-night — against 
fitful  candles  in  a  rocking  house,  against  the  stark 
orchestration  of  the  wind,  the  distracted  sand 
pelting  the  clapboards,  the  voice  of  the  bell, 
remote  and  disembodied,  like  a  lost  sentinel, 
telling  the  breakers.  At  times  the  silver  thread 
seemed  to  go  out  of  the  chamber,  mount  up 

8 


LAND'S  END 

through  the  roof,  searching  for  something  not  to 
be  found,  and  then,  by  and  by,  come  back  again 
to  break  its  heart  in  play. 

The  woman,  lying  cheek  in  hand,  did  not  once 
move  her  eyes  from  Mendal,  who  sat  hunched  on 
his  elbows  in  a  curiously  relaxed  posture,  staring 
at  the  upper  lip  of  the  horn.  The  aria  came  to  a 
close,  and  the  needle  whirred  on  untended  in  the 
blank. 

"It  seems  queer  to  me/'  he  dreamed  aloud, 
"how  anybody  could  make-believe  like  that 
about  a  thing  like  insanity;  make  a  thing  that 
isn't  real  so  much  more  real  than  anything  else. 
I  suppose  that's  what  they  call  being  an  artist." 

"That  isn't  artistry!"  The  woman  raised 
herself  on  an  elbow.  "That's  not  make-believe, 
as  you  call  it.  No,  no — that  was  Farnoe  herself — 
inside — something  she  was  searching  for,  a  flame 
for  her  to  play  with.  Remember,  Mendal,  when 
she  sang  for  that  record  she  had  just — just — 
It  was  about  Terry  Kew." 

"In  the  play?" 

"In  the  flesh!  It  was  perilous,  singing  that, 
Mendal.  No  one  could  have  dreamed  how 
perilous  but  I.  I  could — because — I  am  Mary 
Farnoe." 

For  a  moment  the  man  continued  in  the  same 
posture,  as  though  he  had  not  heard,  or,  hearing, 
had  failed  to  comprehend. 

"Mendal!     Look  at  me!" 

He  turned  his  head  slowly. 
9 


LAND'S  END 

"This  is  Mary  Farnoe,  here.  Do  you  under 
stand?  This  is  'The  Beloved';  this  is  'Rose 
of  the  World/  Mendal  —  'Fleur  d' Amour' — 
'Farnoe'!" 

Mendal' s  lips  parted  once  or  twice,  but  he 
seemed  not  to  know  what  to  say.  He  got  up 
finally  and  stood  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back. 

"My  house  is  honored,"  he  stammered  with  an 
awkward  bow.  Then  he  continued  to  stare  down 
at  her  till  she  cried  at  him  in  her  strengthless 
voice: 

"And  still  you  don't  ask  me  how  I  came  here — 
why  I  came?  Have  I  had  to  come  to  the  end  of 
the  earth  to  find  a  man  who  would  ask  nothing 
of  me?  Sit  down  again!  Nearer!  There! 

"I'll  tell  you,  Mendal.  Because  I  couldn't 
bear  their  watching  and  waiting  and  pretending; 
I  couldn't  bear  their  not  knowing  that  /  knew. 
Oh,  Mendal,  I  couldn't  look  forward  to  the 
whisperings  and  telegrams  and  bulletins.  I've 
amused  the  street  all  my  life,  Mendal — wasn't 
that  enough?  Must  I  die  for  them  in  the  paper 
each  morning,  along  with  their  ball  games  and 
stocks  and  coffee?  And  then  I  was  frightened 
too.  Mendal,  do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be 
frightened?" 

A  faint  color  dyed  her  cheeks,  like  the  sun  seen 
through  a  shell.  She  raised  herself  higher  on 
the  pillow,  and  her  voice  grew  stronger : 

"If  they'd  only  told  me,  Mendal!     I  knew 
10 


LAND'S  END 

they'd  done  something  or  other  to  me  after  I 
went  to  pieces  at  the  Symphony  that  night,  but 
they  were  so  kind  and  made  nothing  of  it.  I  had 
to  get  it  from  a  hysterical,  eavesdropping  maid 
at  the  hotel.  Three  weeks  to  live!  Mendal! 
Mendal!  I  who  had  loved  life  so,  faithless  as  it 
had  been! 

"And  then  there  was  the  train;  the  hot, 
bright,  varnished  cage  rushing  me  away  through 
the  dark;  the  nurse  in  and  out;  little  Blomberg 
in  and  out,  puckering  his  fat  forehead,  smoking 
hard,  trying  for  once  in  his  life  to  be  gay.  Poor 
little  Blomberg;  I  really  think  he  had  some  sort 
of  a  queer  affection  for  me.  After  all,  I  made 
him — the  Great  Manager.  Norway  was  some 
where  in  the  train  too,  covering  me  for  the  A.  P. — 
like  a — a  hanging,  Mendal. 

"They  were  taking  me  somewhere  for  a  rest, 
Blomberg  said.  But  why  then  the  wire  for 
Doctor  Westcountry  to  meet  us?  Didn't  they 
imagine  I  knew  who  Doctor  Westcountry  was, 
what  he  was?  Wasn't  the  name  Westcountry 
enough? 

"They  were  all  asleep,  even  the  nurse.  But 
how  was  I  to  sleep?  The  train  was  a  nightmare. 
It  smothered  me.  I  got  to  thinking  to  whom  I 
belonged.  'Am  I  Mary,  or  am  I  Farnoe?'  I  said 
over  and  over  and  over,  out  loud. 

"The  train  stopped  for  something.  I  crept 
out.  I  had  to  have  air.  Another  train  from  the 

opposite  direction  came  in  between  me  and  my 

11 


LAND'S  END 

own.  It  was  like  the  hand  of  God.  I  turned  my 
back  and  started  to  run  away  along  a  road.  I 
must  have  been  quite  out  of  my  head  with  it  all, 
for  the  train,  I  remember,  turned  down  the  road 
after  me:  I  could  hear  it  thundering  through  the 
trees  behind  me — the  rain,  I  suppose.  How  far 
did  I  come,  Mendal?" 

"Five  miles — or  better." 

"How  could  I?  I  don't  remember  it.  There 
was  a  sign-post  under  a  lantern  with  three  white 
fingers  weeping  for  me,  and  there  was  a  rowboat 
between  two  bushes  on  a  hill,  and  there  was  a 
dog  that  trotted  beside  me  for  a  while;  I  don't 
know  how  long.  And  by  and  by  you  were  behind 
me,  and  that  frightened  me  more  than  anything 
else  had.  You  were  Blomberg  coming  to  get  me; 
you  were  Doctor  Westcountry  coming  to  do 
something  to  me;  you  were  Norway  coming  to 
1  cover'  me;  you  were —  Oh,  you  must  think  me 
a  silly,  hysterical  thing,  Mendal." 

"No!" 

Getting  to  his  feet,  Mendal  thrust  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets  and  then  took  them  out 
again,  his  beard  still  shaking  with  the  savage 
negative.  Restless,  he  snapped  the  horn  beside 
him  as  one  tests  a  melon,  and  then  as  if  appalled 
by  the  sudden  sound,  he  glowered  down  at  his 
boot  toes.  So  he  remained  while  the  woman  went 
on  talking,  as  if  to  herself  now,  arms  outspread 
and  eyes  on  the  ceiling,  her  voice  scarcely 
audible  above  the  wind : 

12 


LAND'S  END 

"  Perhaps  I  died  that  night,  really,  and  this  is 
another  life.  It's  been  so  sweet  here;  it  seems  as 
long  already  as  the  other  was,  looking  back — 
that  other  little  life,  so  crowded,  so  empty,  so 
happy,  so  sad!  There  were  triumphant  moments 
in  it,  Mendal;  I  try  to  get  hold  of  them  now,  and 
they  slip  away  one  by  one  as  I  come  to  them: 
mist,  nothing.  Only  one  stays,  very  small,  so 
small  that  I  had  forgotten  it  till  I  lay  here  in  the 
quiet  sky.  Just  a  man  in  the  dark ;  a  boy,  really — 
a  feverish  boy  crying  for  me  to  stop.  It's  like  a 
fairy  tale,  where  the  thing  that  seemed  so  little 
eats  up  all  the  things  that  seem  so  big. 

"  lFleur  d? Amour1  they  called  me.  'Flower  of 
Love'  that  means,  Mendal.  Whatever  would  the 
Sunday  papers  have  done  without  Mary  Farnoe? 
What  reams  on  reams  they  filled  with  their 
Farnoe,  their  queer,  distorted  Farnoe,  whom  I 
never  knew.  They  never  saw  me.  They  tried 
so  hard  to  make  something  out  of  me.  They 
wanted  me  complex,  and  I  couldn't  be  anything 
but  simple;  they  made  me  a  butterfly,  and  I  was 
a  rock  for  faith.  I  forgive  them.  I  can  begin  to 
understand  an  all-forgiving  God.  It's  so  easy  to 
forgive — in  heaven.  I  can  even  forgive  the  men 
who  never  loved  me.  I  can  even  smile  at  them 
now.  They  all  thought  they  loved  me,  poor 
things!  I've  no  doubt  they  loved  something  or 
other.  Youth  was  what  Tom  Lord  loved,  I 
think.  Bennington  loved  me  for  the  crowds; 
Von  Luhr  because  I  was  so  essentially  American; 

13 


LAND'S  END 

Belham  because  I  was  so  essentially  un-American. 
Terry  Kew  loved  himself. 

"I  say,  I  forgive  them.  They  slip  away,  mist, 
nothing:  an  hour  eats  up  years.  How  I  should 
have  smiled  then  had  any  one  told  me  I  was  to 
look  back  out  of  the  future  and  remember  that 
boy  as  the  only  lover  of  Mary  Farnoe.  It's 
queer,  isn't  it,  Mendal?" 

"What?" 

"To  call  him  that.  When  he  never  spoke  a 
word  of  love  to  me.  I  never  saw  him  except 
once,  and  that  in  the  dark;  I  don't  so  much  as 
know  his  name.  But  why  do  you  listen  to  my 
maunderings,  Mendal?  Why  don't  you  stick 
your  fingers  in  your  ears?  Haven't  I  asked 
enough  of  you,  first  and  last?" 

"No.     I  will  listen." 

"You  won't  hear.  It's  too  phantasmal.  Ships 
in  the  Night!  It's  just  that  he  seems  to  fit  in 
here  with  the  wind  and  ocean  and  marches  and 
sea  birds.  He  was  an  interne,  I  think.  (Oh, 
just  then  I  was  getting  well  in  a  hospital,  slowly, 
for  when  I  was  well  I  was  to  marry  Von  Luhr, 
and  my  wildness  and  fidget  ings  set  me  back.) 
He  must  have  been  an  interne;  he  wore  white, 
I  remember,  and  looked  like  a  ghost  standing 
at  the  foot  of  my  bed  in  the  dark.  I  knew  he  had 
no  business  there,  but,  oddly  enough,  that 
wasn't  my  first  thought.  If  he  had  a  queer  flair 
about  me,  perhaps  I  had  a  sort  of  one  about  him, 
too.  It  may  have  been  just  his  attitude.  At  any 


LAND'S  END 

rate  my  first  impulse  was  to  say  aloud:  'You 
poor  boy!' 

"He  started  and  stammered  that  he  hadn't 
known  I  was  awake.  I  don't  believe  there  was 
ever  such  a  queer  conversation  as  that.  It 
sounds  inane,  like  a  silly  puzzle  without  an 
answer. 

"  'Why  do  you  do  it?'  he  asked,  out  of 
nothing. 

"  'Do  what?' 

"He  wouldn't  listen  to  my  questions,  but  shook 
them  off  with  a  fevered  impatience;  his  words 
seemed  to  get  in  the  way  of  his  thoughts. 

"  'I  wish  you'd  stop!  I  wish  to  God  you'd 
stop!' 

"  'Stop  what?' 

"  'They're  eating  you  up — burning  you  up! 
Can't  you  see  they're  eating  you  up  as  fast  as 
they  can?' 

"  'Who  are?' 

"  'I  wish,  for  dear  Christ's  sake,  you'd  run 
away  from  them,'  he  cried  in  a  passionate 
whisper. 

"  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  stared  at  him.  You  can't 
imagine,  Mendal,  how  weird  it  was.  I  wasn't 
frightened  in  the  least.  For  an  instant  I'd  been 
appalled  at  his  cheek,  but  now  not  even  that.  I 
forgot  who  I  was  and  who  he  was. 

"  'Come  around  here  beside  the  bed,'  I  said  to 
him.  He  came,  sank  down  on  his  knees,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  when  I  laid  a 

15 


LAND'S  END 

hand  on  his  hair  he  was  shivering  all  over.  I 
had  a  sense  of  being  a  thousand  years  older 
than  he. 

"  'You  poor,  poor  child/  I  said.  'You've 
fallen  in  love  with  Mary  Farnoe,  like  the  rest  of 
them.  What  a  pity!  And  you  want  me  to  run 
away  with  you.  Is  that  it?' 

"He  protested  wildly.  'No,  no,  no!  That's 
what  I'm  trying  to  tell  you — not  with  anybody! 
Never  let  any  one  get  a  hold  on  you  again.  If 
only  you  could  be  turned  to  ice  somehow.  Ice, 
cold,  quiet !  Close  the  doors  on  them.  Lock  them 
out.  They  don't  bring  you  anything!  Always 
taking — taking  you  away,  little  by  little,  till  one 
day  there'll  be  nothing  left  of  you!' 

"He  may  have  been  older  than  I  in  years;  I 
might  have  been  his  mother.  I  smoothed  his 
hair,  but  I  couldn't  help  smiling  at  him,  he 
seemed  so  utterly  outlandish.  I  tried  to  tell  him 
how  we  weren't  made  that  way;  how  what  there 
was  to  spend  had  to  be  spent. 

"  'You  don't  understand,  poor  lad/  I  was 
saying  when  the  night  nurse's  flash  found  him 
there  beside  my  bed.  He  was  discharged  next 
morning,  I  heard. 

"But  there  it  is — quite  round  and  finished, 
standing  by  itself." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence;  everything  in  the 
world  seemed  to  have  been  said.  Mary  Farnoe's 
sentence  had  carried  a  curious  feeling  of  finality, 
like  the  settling  of  a  last  account.  She  lay  on  her 

16 


LAND'S  END 

side  with  her  hands  clasped,  searching  Mendal's 
half-lowered  face. 

"Mendal!" 

He  looked  up,  moved  by  the  change  in  her 
voice,  and  found  her  embarrassed  as  a  girl  with 
the  color  coming  and  going  across  her  face. 

"I — I  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  say  it, 
Mendal.  You  seem  so  big  and  solid  and  de 
pendable;  sometimes  it  almost  frightens  me  to 
find  myself  clinging  to  you  so  for  everything. 
And  yet  it's  been  so  sweet.  You've  been  like  a 
breath  of  clear  air  to  me  after  the  other  sort  of 
thing — their  precious  frailties,  their  precious 
personalities,  their  precious  spirits,  their  whims. 
I  was  always  so  afraid  of  doing  something  to 
make  them  not  love  me  of  a  sudden.  But  out 
here,  Mendal — why,  you're  Nobody.  And  I'm 
Nobody.  It  doesn't  seem  to  matter  much 
whether  you—  She  broke  off  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  in  trouble  for  breath.  "I  don't  want  you 
to  laugh  at  me,"  she  implored. 

"Laugh  at  youF1 

"No.  It's  about  the  bell,  out  there  at  the  last 
end  of  everything." 

Mendal  checked  her  there  by  putting  out  a 
hand  and  covered  both  of  hers,  and  his  eyes 
narrowed  a  little. 

"You've  been  thinking  about  that  bell  a  good 
deal  lately." 

"Oh,  please,  don't  think  I'm  romantic  or  melo 
dramatic.  No;  it's  deeper  than  that,  Mendal. 
2  17 


LAND'S  END 

It's  me.  I've  always  had  that  same  passion,  to 
carry  through,  to  go  through  to  the  end,  what 
ever  it  might  be.  Listen,  Mendal!  Hear!  It 
knows  me  better  than  you  do,  Mendal." 

"Do  you  mean/'  he  put  to  her  slowly,  "that 
you  would  like  to  go  out  there  to-night?" 

Because  she  had  expected  him  to  be  aghast  at 
her,  she  was  staggered  by  his  grave  possession. 
He  got  up  and  moved  to  the  door,  where  he 
turned  with  his  hand  on  the  latch. 

"Do  you  think  you're  strong  enough,  on  a 
night  like  this?" 

"Yes,  yes!  I  feel  stronger  than  I  have  for 
weeks." 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

It  was  more  than  sixty  seconds  before  he  came 
back  into  the  room  and  stood  over  her,  studying 
the  face  against  the  pillow. 

"You  look  like  a  bride,"  he  said. 

Bending  over  suddenly,  he  wrapped  the  bed 
clothes  tight  about  her,  picked  her  up  in  his 
arms,  and  went  down-stairs  and  out  of  the 
house. 

Once  beyond  the  half  shelter  of  the  porch,  the 
wind  claimed  them.  Mendal' s  first  rush  carried 
him  as  far  as  the  break  of  the  hill,  but  there  he 
hesitated  and  looked  down  at  the  face  against 
his  shoulder,  dim-gray  in  its  mufflings.  His  own 
face  was  gray,  and  a  bead  of  perspiration  clung 
for  an  instant  on  his  forehead  before  the  wind 

whisked  it  away. 

18 


LAND'S  END 

"Do  you  want  to  go?"  he  asked,  bending  so 
that  his  lips  were  close  to  her  ear. 

"Am  I  heavy?" 

He  shook  his  head  savagely 

"What's  that,  Mendal— over  there?" 

He  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  slanting 
over  his  shoulder.  Beyond  Barnham  Head 
Village  the  moon  was  rising,  casting  a  dome  of 
light  before  it  into  the  sky,  and  vertically  across 
this  dome,  from  a  further  abutment  of  the  hill, 
rose  the  stark  black  shape  of  a  cross.  "That?" 
he  hesitated  an  instant.  "That's  the  telegraph." 

"But  I  didn't  know—" 

"It's  come  lately." 

"Oh!"  She  studied  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  her 
lips  still  half  parted  with  the  exclamation,  and 
then:  "What  difference  does  it  make,  after 
all?  Why  do  we  stop  here  so  long,  Mendal?" 

He  started  down  the  slope,  sliding  and  spatter 
ing  the  loose  sand,  waded  through  the  bit  of 
marsh  at  the  bottom  that  sucked  at  his  shoes, 
found  the  hard,  uneven  footing  of  the  breakwater, 
and  passed  out  once  more  into  the  wind. 

It  was  one  of  those  nights  that  come  once  or 
twice  in  an  autumn,  swept  clean  of  all  the  dusts 
and  mists  of  the  world,  everything  shorn  and 
incisive:  even  the  sound  of  the  water  lashing 
through  the  crevices  of  the  sea  wall  had  an  edged 
quality,  like  liquid  blades  playing  in  the  rock. 
Mendal  had  to  keep  sharp  watch  of  his  path, 
for  even  in  the  growing  light  the  tilted  slabs 

19 


LAND'S  END 

were  treacherous  footing.  When  the  arm  about 
his  neck,  tightening,  begged  his  attention,  he 
iiad  to  bring  up  and  stand  balanced  against  the 
wind.  There  was  nothing  left  in  his  face  now: 
his  stare  was  dull,  almost  vacant. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked.  He  bent  to  catch  her 
answer. 

"I'm  getting  so  small,  Mendal,  and  you're 
growing  bigger  and  bigger  all  the  while.  And  I 
don't  hear  the  bell  any  more.  You — Mendal, 
you're  not  fooling  me?' 

"No!"  His  voice  was  sharp.  "The  surf  at  the 
head  drowns  it  now.  You  won't  hear  it  any 
more  till  we  come  up  with  it." 

He  went  forward  again.  Her  weight,  frail  as  it 
was,  began  to  tell.  When  .he  had  reached  the 
square  hewn  boulder  rising  like  a  sort  of  key 
stone  at  the  center  of  the  wall,  he  had  to  pause  a 
moment  in  its  lee,  resting  his  back  against  the 
rock. 

"Is  it  here?"  she  asked  him. 

':No,  no!  I'm  only  getting  my  wind;  that's 
all." 

"Why  won't  you  look  at  me,  Mendal?" 

For  some  reason  or  other  it  seemed  an  effort 
for  him.  For  a  moment  she  lay  there  watching 
him. 

"Why  won't  you  say  it,  Mendal?" 

Her  hand  crept  up  to  touch  his  cheek,  and  it 
was  whiter  now  than  her  own. 

"You  would  have  said  it,  Mendal,  if  I  hadn't 
20 


LAND'S   END 

told  you  about — about  me.  But  what  difference 
can  that  make — now — out  here?  The  world's 
gone.  We're  all  there  are,  Mendal;  one  man  and 
one  woman.  But  why  should  I  want  you  to  tell 
me,  after  all?  It's  so  different  from  anything 
else  that  ever  happened.  I  can  love  you  to  the 
last  depths,  Mendal,  without  it's  seeming  so 
fatal  a  thing  whether  you  love  me  or  not.  Of 
course  that  would  be  sweet,  incredibly — " 

He  had  forgotten  to  be  careful  with  her  or  with 
himself.  His  kiss  left  them  both  shaken  and 
breathless.  "You —  You—  He  seemed  un 
able  to  say  anything  but  that:  "You —  You — 
You—" 

He  was  going  forward  again,  almost  at  a 
run.  The  breakwater  came  to  an  end:  he  was 
floundering  up  the  rise  to  Barnham  Head,  one 
instant  in  the  lee,  the  next,  crushed  and  deafened, 
face  to  face  with  the  driven  sea.  Farnoe's  fingers 
dragged  at  his  cheek. 

"Where  is  it,  Mendal?    Mendal!" 

"Look!"  He  pulled  the  blanket  away  from 
her  face.  A  puff  of  spray  like  cannon  smoke 
drove  across  them,  blinding  the  eyes. 

"Look  again!" 

There  was  nothing  to  see,  nothing  to  take  hold 
of  or  comprehend.  Grayness  swooned  into 
blackness;  a  thin,  wide  tongue  lashed  out  of  the 
smother,  glistening  with  dim  stars,  clotted  with 
ropes  of  spume:  licked  up  at  them  across  the 
sand  with  a  sinister  hunger;  fell  back  again, 

21 


LAND'S  END 

leaving  a  serpent  of  kelp  at  Mendal's  feet, 
writhing  and  faintly  luminous. 

"Look!"  he  shouted  for  the  third  time,  shaking 
her.  "Out  there!  Beyond!'7 

But  she  had  turned  her  face  the  other  way. 

"Why  do  you  do  this?  Mendal!  Mendal! 
Why  do  you  frighten  me  so?  Why  don't  you 
take  me  to  the  bell?" 

"I  am!  It's  out  there — over  the  outer  bar. 
Come!" 

He  started  down  the  shining  slope,  but  now  she 
was  crying  terribly  in  his  ear : ' '  Mendal!  Mendal! 
Mendal!" 

"Good  God!"  he  shouted.  "What's  the 
matter?"  Stumbling  back  again,  he  pushed  her 
face  away  from  his  neck  and  stared  into  the 
staring  eyes. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go?" 

They  looked  incredibly  old,  both  of  them!  .  .  . 

Somehow  or  other  they  were  on  higher  ground 
and  wire-grass  was  catching  at  Mendal's  shoes 
and  trying  to  trip  him.  He  stumbled  once  and 
went  down  on  one  knee,  but  the  sand  was  soft, 
and  he  did  not  lose  hold  of  his  burden.  A  build 
ing  with  two  yellow  windows  came  around  a 
hummock  to  meet  them. 

It  was  hard  for  Mary  Farnoe  to  remember  what 
happened  after  that  for  a  time.  Whatever  it  was, 
it  led  to  a  kind  of  bed  built  into  the  side  of  a 
small  room  filled  with  papers  and  outlandish 

instruments  and  warmth  and  light. 

22 


LAND'S  END 

Some  one  had  hold  of  one  of  her  wrists.  She 
began  to  realize  that  it  was  Mendal  and  that  his 
eyes,  fixed  and  unwinking,  were  holding  her  up 
out  of  something.  There  were  others  in  the  room : 
an  old  man  with  a  blue  coat  and  gray  whiskers 
puffing  out  from  his  chin  like  an  inverted  halo; 
still  other  men  behind  him. 

"  Where  am  I?"  she  asked  with  her  lips,  for  she 
seemed  to  have  no  voice. 

Mendal' s  eyes  came  down  a  little  closer,  still 
holding  her  tight. 

"  You're  at  Barnham  Head,  Mary  Farnoe:  at 
the  life-saving  station." 

"I'm  so  weak.    Dear  me,  so  w-e-a-k." 

"Of  course  you're  weak,  like  a  babe  on  its 
birth  night.  You'll  be  stronger  by  and  by. 
Do  you  understand?  Stronger  by  and  by!'7 

Without  moving  his  eyes,  he  gave  some  word 
or  sign  that  sent  the  others  out  of  the  room,  the 
captain  last,  combing  his  whiskers  with  his 
fingers  and  peering  over  his  shoulder  with  a  light 
of  awe. 

"The  broth,"  Mendal  called  after  him.  And 
then  to  Mary  Farnoe:  "Open  your  mouth  and 
swallow  this.  It's  a  little  brandy.  There!" 

She  lay  quiet  as  death  itself,  watching  him 
with  the  formless  wonder  of  a  newborn  watching 
a  candle  flame.  He  began  to  speak  with  a  painful 
deliberation,  holding  himself  desperately  in  hand, 
making  each  word  count  as  a  separate  thing, 
hammering,  hammering! 

23 


LAND'S  END 

' '  Mary  Farnoe,  listen !  You  couldn't  go  through! 
You  failed  in  that  role;  that  gesture  is  gone. 
I  proved  it  to  you.  You  had  hold  of  a  fine 
fancy  there;  a  deep,  dramatic  symbolism — Land's 
End,  Eternal  Ocean,  the  Bell  calling,  calling,  day 
and  night,  from  the  bosom  of  Oblivion.  Good 
God!  I  don't  wonder  it  got  hold  of  that  fantastic 
spirit  of  yours.  A  big  idea — yes,  yes.  But  it  fell 
flat.  Now  you're  starting  all  over  again,  on  some 
thing  new.  It's  a  shock — birth  is  always  a  shock. 
Listen,  Mary  Farnoe!  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  this;  learn  it  by  heart;  it's  the  lines  of  your 
new  role:  There  is  absolutely  nothing  organically 
wrong  with  you  now.  That  was  all  over  two  weeks 
ago.  In  a  month  you  will  be  yourself.  Do  you 
get  this,  word  by  word?  No,  no;  don't  look  away 
from  me.  You  couldn't  if  you  tried.  That's 
better!  Here's  another  swallow  of  the  brandy, 
and  then  a  little  broth.  You'll  see  how  thor 
oughly  I  have  it  over  you;  the  captain  here  will 
tell  you  I  'phoned  about  this  broth  before  we 
left  the  house  an  hour  ago.  I'll  hold  you  up  a 
moment,  so!'7 

The  spirits  and  hot  broth  began  to  tell;  a  new 
color  crept  into  her  cheeks  as  she  lay  there,  with 
no  will  of  her  own. 

"You  talk  so  queerly,  Mendal;  so  different, 
so  new.  I — I  hardly  know  you,  Mendal."  It 
may  have  been  five  minutes  before  she  spoke 
again.  "Why  did  they  give  me  three  weeks  to 
live,  then?" 

24 


LAND'S  END 

"  Three  weeks  as  you  were  living  then — on 
your  heart  and  nerve. " 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before,  Mendal— 
that  I  was  all  right?" 

"What  would  have  been  the  use?  You 
wouldn't  have  believed  me.  No,  no,  Mary  Farnoe ; 
I  don't  think  you'd  believe  anything  in  the 
world  unless  the  stage  were  set  for  it — as  if — well, 
you  wouldn't  have  your  life  saved  except  in  a 
life-saving  station.  Truth  is  a  denouement — or 
it  is  nothing." 

Another  minute  passed  while  she  gazed  at  him 
dreamily. 

"Will  I  sing  again,  Mendal?" 

"That's  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  Mary" — he 
tried  to  smile — "the  gallery  gods!  You'll  do 
what  your  audience  expects  of  you,  even  the 
impossible." 

"But  M-e-n-d-a-l — "  A  hand  came  toward 
him  across  the  covers,  appealing. 

"You  remember  what  you  said  once,  Mary? 
'What's  to  be  spent  must  be  spent '?" 

"But  what  if  I  was  wrong,  Mendal?" 

He  looked  terribly  tired  and  white.  His  hands 
lay  palms  upward  on  his  thighs,  and  for  a 
moment  his  eyes  went  heavily  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  if  he  were  weighing  something  against 
something.  "And  what  if  you  were  right?"  he 
said. 

He  got  up  suddenly,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of 
himself,  and,  turning  to  a  telephone  on  the  wall, 

25 


LAND'S  END 

took  down  the  receiver:  "Is  this  the  Barnham 
Head  House?  .  .  .  May  I  speak  with —  Oh, 
is  it  you,  Blomberg?  Yes?  We've  turned  the 
corner,  Blomberg.  May  I  speak  with  Norway? 
.  .  .  Thanks!" 

It  was  hard  to  wait  there,  staring  at  a  knot 
in  the  paneling;  he  seemed  actually  to  grow 
whiter  and  gaunter  with  every  dragging  second. 

"Oh,  hello!  hello!  Norway?  .  .  .  It's  West- 
country  speaking,  Norway.  I'll  give  you  a 
leader,  Norway;  put  it  on  the  wire  to-night. 
'Farnoe  will  sing  in  three  months.'  That's  all. 
.  .  .  Thanks.  Thanks,  Norway.  Goodnight!" 

"Now,"  he  said,  his  eyes  still  on  the  knot, 
"now  you're  playing  to  the  old  audience  again. 
I'm  tired,"  he  went  on.  "And  I'm  afraid  to 
look  at  you." 

"West country,"  came  her  wondering  voice. 
' '  Westcountry !  You're — you're  Westcountry!" 

"You're  angry!" 

When  she  didn't  speak  he  had  to  cover  up  the 
silence  somehow. 

"Blomberg  will  be  glad  to  get  away.  Poor 
Blomberg!  the  Barnham  Head  House  isn't  quite 
up  to  Blomberg' s  style,  though  he's  been  a  sur 
prising  brick  about  it.  And  Norway.  How 
they've  played  chess  down  there,  and  how  they 
hate  chess!  I've  wanted  them  to  go,  but  they 
wouldn't.  They  were  the  ones  you  saw  in  the 
buggy  with  me  that  night.  That  was  my  train 

that  came  in  between  you  and  yours.    It  took  us  a 

26 


LAND'S  END 

little  while  to  pick  up  your  trail.  Mary,  Mary, 
if  you  knew  how  I'd  dreaded  this  moment,  when 
I  should  have  to  tell  you." 

"Why?" 

He  had  to  look  at  her  when  she  spoke  so,  and 
now  it  was  his  eyes  that  were  bewildered  and 
hers  sure  and  full  of  light. 

"I  was  afraid  it  might —  Mary,  can't  you 
see  that — what  you  called  the  '  balcony  hung 
over  the  edge' — 'one  woman  and  one  man — 
nobody  and  nobody'- 

"Was  that  sweet  to  you,  too?" 

"  Sweet?  Is  it  sweet  when  a  dream  comes 
true,  even  for  a  little  while — a  dream  one's  been 
alone  with  for  ten  years?  Once  I  knelt  in  the 
dark,  Mary,  beside  a  bed  in  a  hospital,  very 
young  and  foolish  and  feverish — " 

And  there  he  was  down  on  his  knees  again 
with  his  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  she  was 
smiling  at  him  again,  but  not  because  he  was 
outlandish  this  time. 

"I  knew,"  she  whispered.  "I  began  to  know 
almost  a  week  ago.  Do  you  know  how?  Well, 
there  couldn't  be  two-  of  you.  I — I  thought  you 
were  going  to  tell  me  to-night." 

Her  lips  were  against  his  cheek. 

"Does  that  mean,  Mary — that  kiss — that  it 
doesn't  matter,  after  all?  That  even  without 
my  romantic  trappings:  rather  gray  and 
prosaic— 

Her  low  laughter  was  like  a  caress. 

27 


LAND'S  END 

"The  sea  must  be  going  down,"  she  whispered 
after  a  long  time.  "I  heard  the  bell,  just  then, 
very  faintly." 

"Yes!  The  bell's  a  masquer  too.  It's  gone 
back  to  the  role  that  made  it  famous — warning 
people  off  the  bar." 


THE  WOMAN  AT  SEVEN  BROTHERS 

I  TELL  you  sir,  I  was  innocent.  I  didn't  know 
any  more  about  the  world  at  twenty-two  than 
some  do  at  twelve.  My  uncle  and  aunt  in  Dux- 
bury  brought  me  up  strict;  I  studied  hard  in 
high  school,  I  worked  hard  after  hours,  and  I 
went  to  church  twice  on  Sundays,  and  I  can't 
see  it's  right  to  put  me  in  a  place  like  this,  with 
crazy  people.  Oh  yes,  I  know  they're  crazy — 
you  can't  tell  me.  As  for  what  they  said  in  court 
about  finding  her  with  her  husband,  that's  the 
Inspector's  lie,  sir,  because  he's  down  on  me,  and 
wants  to  make  it  look  like  my  fault. 

No,  sir,  I  'can't  say  as  I  thought  she  was  hand 
some — not  at  first.  For  one  thing,  her  lips  were 
too  thin  and  white,  and  her  color  was  bad.  I'll 
tell  you  a  fact,  sir;  that  first  day  I  came  off  to  the 
Light  I  was  sitting  on  my  cot  in  the  store-room 
(that's  where  the  assistant  keeper  sleeps  at  the 
Seven  Brothers),  as  lonesome  as  I  could  be, 
away  from  home  for  the  first  time  and  the  water 
all  around  me,  and,  even  though  it  was  a  calm  day, 
pounding  enough  on  the  ledge  to  send  a  kind  of  a 

woom-woom-woom  whining  up  through  all  that 

29 


LAND'S  END 

solid  rock  of  the  tower.  And  when  old  Fedderson 
poked  his  head  down  from  the  living-room  with 
the  sunshine  above  making  a  kind  of  bright 
frame  around  his  hair  and  whiskers,  to  give  me  a 
cheery,  "Make  yourself  to  home,  son!0  I  re 
member  I  said  to  myself:  "He's  all  right.  I'll  get 
along  with  him.  But  his  wife's  enough  to  sour 
milk."  That  was  queer,  because  she  was  so  much 
under  him  in  age — 'long  about  twenty-eight  or 
so,  and  him  nearer  fifty.  But  that's  what  I  said, 
sir. 

Of  course  that  feeling  wore  off,  same  as  any 
feeling  will  wear  off  sooner  or  later  in  a  place  like 
the  Seven  Brothers.  Cooped  up  in  a  place  like 
that  you  come  to  know  folks  so  well  that  you 
forget  what  they  do  look  like.  There  was  a 
long  time  I  never  noticed  her,  any  more  than 
you'd  notice  the  cat.  We  used  to  sit  of  an  evening 
around  the  table,  as  if  you  were  Fedderson  there, 
and  me  here,  and  her  somewhere  back  there,  in 
the  rocker,  knitting.  Fedderson  would  be  work 
ing  on  his  Jacob 's-ladder,  and  I'd  be  reading. 
He'd  been  working  on  that  Jacob 's-ladder  a 
year,  I  guess,  and  every  time  the  Inspector  carne 
off  with  the  tender  he  was  so  astonished  to  see 
how  good  that  ladder  was  that  the  old  man  would 
go  to  work  and  make  it  better.  That's  all  he 
lived  for. 

If  I  was  reading,  as  I  say,  I  daren't  take  my 
eyes  off  the  book,  or  Fedderson  had  me.  And 
then  he'd  begin — what  the  Inspector  said  about 

30 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

him.  How  surprised  the  member  of  the  board 
had  been,  that  time,  to  see  everything  so  clean 
about  the  light.  What  the  Inspector  had  said 
about  Fedderson's  being  stuck  here  in  a  second- 
class  light — best  keeper  on  the  coast.  And  so  on 
and  so  on,  till  either  he  or  I  had  to  go  aloft  and 
have  a  look  at  the  wicks. 

He'd  been  there  twenty-three  years,  all  told, 
and  he'd  got  used  to  the  feeling  that  he  was  kept 
down  unfair — so  used  to  it,  I  guess,  that  he  fed 
on  it,  and  told  himself  how  folks  ashore  would 
talk  when  he  was  dead  and  gone — best  keeper 
on  the  coast — kept  down  unfair.  Not  that  he 
said  that  to  me.  No,  he  was  far  too  loyal  and 
humble  and  respectful,  doing  his  duty  without 
complaint,  as  anybody  could  see. 

And  all  that  time,  night  after  night,  hardly 
ever  a  word  out  of  the  woman.  As  I  remember  it, 
she  seemed  more  like  a  piece  of  furniture  than 
anything  else — not  even  a  very  good  cook,  nor 
over  and  above  tidy.  One  day,  when  he  and  I 
were  trimming  the  lamp,  he  passed  the  remark 
that  his  first  wife  used  to  dust  the  lens  and  take 
a  pride  in  it.  Not  that  he  said  a  word  against 
Anna,  though.  He  never  said  a  word  against  any 
living  mortal;  he  was  too  upright. 

I  don't  know  how  it  came  about;  or,  rather, 
I  do  know,  but  it  was  so  sudden,  and  so  far  away 
from  my  thoughts,  that  it  shocked  me,  like  the 
world  turned  over.  It  was  at  prayers.  That 

night   I   remember   Fedderson   was   uncommon 

31 


LAND'S  END 

long-winded.  We'd  had  a  batch  of  newspapers 
out  by  the  tender,  and  at  such  times  the  old  man 
always  made  a  long  watch  of  it,  getting  the  world 
straightened  out.  For  one  thing,  the  United 
States  minister  to  Turkey  was  dead.  Well,  from 
him  and  his  soul,  Fedderson  got  on  to  Turkey  and 
the  Presbyterian  college  there,  and  from  that  to 
heathen  in  general.  He  rambled  on  and  on,  like 
the  surf  on  the  ledge,  woom-woom-woonij  never 
coming  to  an  end. 

You  know  how  you'll  be  at  prayers  sometimes. 
My  mind  strayed.  I  counted  the  canes  in  the 
chair-seat  where  I  was  kneeling;  I  plaited  a 
corner  of  the  table-cloth  between  my  fingers  for  a 
spell,  and  by  and  by  my  eyes  went  wandering  up 
the  back  of  the  chair. 

The  woman,  sir,  was  looking  at  me.  Her  chair 
was  back  to  mine,  close,  and  both  our  heads  were 
down  in  the  shadow  under  the  edge  of  the  table, 
with  Fedderson  clear  over  on  the  other  side  by 
the  stove.  And  there  were  her  two  eyes  hunting 
mine  between  the  spindles  in  the  shadow.  You 
won't  believe  me,  sir,  but  I  tell  you  I  felt  like 
jumping  to  my  feet  and  running  out  of  the  room — 
it  was  so  queer. 

I  don't  know  what  her  husband  was  praying 
about  after  that.  His  voice  didn't  mean  any 
thing,  no  more  than  the  seas  on  the  ledge  away 
down  there.  I  went  to  work  to  count  the  canes 
in  the  seat  again,  but  all  my  eyes  were  in  the  top 
of  my  head.  It  got  so  I  couldn't  stand  it.  We 

32 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

were  at  the  Lord's  prayer,  saying  it  singsong 
together,  when  I  had  to  look  up  again.  And 
there  her  two  eyes  were,  between  the  spindles, 
hunting  mine.  Just  then  all  of  us  were  saying, 
"Forgive  us  our  trespasses — "  I  thought  of  it 
afterward. 

When  we  got  up  she  was  turned  the  other  way, 
but  I  couldn't  help  seeing  her  cheeks  were  red. 
It  was  terrible.  I  wondered  if  Fedderson  would 
notice,  though  I  might  have  known  he  wouldn't 
— not  him.  He  was  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to 
get  at  his  Jacobus-ladder,  and  then  he  had  to  tell 
me  for  the  tenth  time  what  the  Inspector  'd 
said  that  day  about  getting  him  another  light — 
Kingdom  Come,  maybe,  he  said. 

I  made  some  excuse  or  other  and  got  away. 
Once  in  the  store-room,  I  sat  down  on  my  cot 
and  stayed  there  a  long  time,  feeling  queerer 
than  anything.  I  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  I 
don't  know  why.  After  I'd  got  my  boots  off  I 
sat  with  them  in  my  hands  for  as  much  as  an 
hour,  I  guess,  staring  at  the  oil-tank  and  its 
lopsided  shadow  on  the  wall.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I 
was  shocked.  I  was  only  twenty-two  remember, 
and  I  was  shocked  and  horrified. 

And  when  I  did  turn  in,  finally,  I  didn't  sleep 
at  all  well.  Two  or  three  times  I  came  to,  sitting 
straight  up  in  bed.  Once  I  got  up  and  opened 
the  outer  door  to  have  a  look.  The  water  was 
like  glass,  dim,  without  a  breath  of  wind,  and  the 

moon  just  going  down.    Over  on  the  black  shore 
3  33 


LAND'S    KM  I) 

I  made  out  two  lights  in  a  village,  like  a  pair  of 
eyes  watching.  Lonely?  My,  yes!  Lonely  and 
nervous.  I  had  a  horror  of  her,  sir.  The  dinghy- 
boat  hung  on  its  davits  just  there  in  front  of  the 
door,  and  for  a  minute  I  had  an  awful  hankering 
to  climb  into  it,  lower  away,  and  row  off,  no 
matter  where.  It  sounds  foolish. 

Well,  it  seemed  foolish  next  morning,  with  the 
sun  shining  and  everything  as  usual — Fedderson 
sucking  his  pen  and  wagging  his  head  over  his 
eternal  "log,"  and  his  wife  down  in  the  rocker 
with  her  head  in  the  newspaper,  and  her  break 
fast  work  still  waiting.  I  guess  that  jarred  it  out 
of  me  more  than  anything  else — sight  of  her 
slouched  down  there,  with  her  stringy,  yellow 
hair  and  her  dusty  apron  and  the  pale  back  of  her 
neck,  reading  the  Society  Notes.  Society  Notes! 
Think  of  it!  For  the  first  time  since  I  came  to 
Seven  Brothers  I  wanted  to  laugh. 

I  guess  I  did  laugh  when  I  went  aloft  to  clean 
the  lamp  and  found  everything  so  free  and  breezy, 
gulls  flying  high  and  little  whitecaps  making 
under  a  westerly.  It  was  like  feeling  a  big  load 
dropped  off  your  shoulders.  Fedderson  came  up 
with  his  dust-rag  and  cocked  his  head  at  me. 

"What's  the  matter,  Ray?"  said  he. 

"Nothing,"  said  I.  And  then  I  couldn't  help 
it.  "  Seems  kind  of  out  of  place  for  society  notes," 
said  I,  "out  here  at  Seven  Brothers." 

He  was  the  other  side  of  the  lens,  and  when  he 
looked  at  me  he  had  a  thousand  eyes,  all  sober. 

34 


THK    WOMAN   AT   SEVEN   BROTHER 

f  <>r  a  minute  I  thought  he  was  going  on  dusting, 
but  then  he;  <-.n\\<-  out  and  sat  down  on  a  nil. 

"Sometime*,"  «aid  ne>  "I  8et  to  thinking  it 
may  be  a  mite  dull  for  her  out  here.  She's 
pretty  young,  Ray.  Not  much  more'n  a  girl, 
hardly." 

"Not  much  more'n  a  girl"!  It  gave  me  a 
turn,  Hir,  as  though  I'd  seen  my  aunt  hi  short 
dm  e  . 

'It  M  good  home  for  her,  though,"  he  went 
on  slow.  "Fve  seen  a  lot  worse  ashore,  Ray. 
Of  eour  '•  n  I  r-ould  get  a  shore  light— 

"  Kingdom  Gome's  a  shore  light." 

He  loob-d  at  me  out  of  his  deep-#et  eyes,  and 
then  he  turned  them  around  the  light-room, 
wh'-re  he'd  h<-<-n  so  long. 

"No,"  said  he,  wagging  his  head.  "It  ain't 
for  such  as  me." 

I  never  >aw  so  humble  a  man. 

"Hut.  look  here,"  he  went  on,  more  cheerful. 
"As  I  was  telling  her  just  now,  a  month  from 
ferday's  our  fourth  anniversary,  arid  I'm 
going  to  take  her  ashore  for  the  day  and  give  her 
a  holiday — new  hat  and  everything.  A  girl 
wants  a  mite  of  excitement  now  and  then, 
Hay." 

There  it  was  again,  that  "girl."  It  gave  me 
thr-  fidg'-t-,  Hir.  I  had  to  do  some-thing  ahout  it. 
It's  close  quarters  for  last  names  in  a  light,  and 
I'd  taken  to  calling  him  Uncle  Matt  MOO  after 
I  came.  Now,  when  J  was  at  table  that  noon, 


LAND'S  END 

I  spoke  over  to  where  she  was  standing  by  the 
stove,  getting  him  another  help  of  chowder. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  some,  too,  Aunt  Anna," 
said  I,  matter  of  fact. 

She  never  said  a  word  nor  gave  a  sign — just 
stood  there  kind  of  round-shouldered,  dipping 
the  chowder.  And  that  night  at  prayers  I 
hitched  my  chair  around  the  table,  with  its  back 
the  other  way. 

You  get  awful  lazy  in  a  lighthouse,  some 
ways.  No  matter  how  much  tinkering  you've 
got,  there's  still  a  lot  of  time  and  there's 
such  a  thing  as  too  much  reading.  The  changes 
in  weather  get  monotonous,  too,  by  and  by; 
the  light  burns  the  same  on  a  thick  night  as  it 
does  on  a  fair  one.  Of  course  there's  the  ships, 
north  -  bound,  south  -  bound  —  wind  -  j  ammers, 
freighters,  passenger-boats  full  of  people.  In  the 
watches  at  night  you  can  see  their  lights  go  by, 
and  wonder  what  they  are,  how  they're  laden, 
where  they'll  fetch  up,  and  all.  I  used  to  do  that 
almost  every  evening  when  it  was  my  first  watch, 
sitting  out  on  the  walk-around  up  there  with  my 
legs  hanging  over  the  edge  and  my  chin  propped 
on  the  railing — lazy.  The  Boston  boat  was  the 
prettiest  to  see,  with  her  three  tiers  of  port-holes 
lit,  like  a  string  of  pearls  wrapped  round  and 
round  a  woman's  neck — well  away,  too,  for  the 
ledge  must  have  made  a  couple  of  hundred 
fathoms  off  the  Light,  like  a  white  dog-tooth  of  a 
breaker,  even  on  the  darkest  night. 

36 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

Well,  I  was  lolling  there  one  night,  as  I  say, 
watching  the  Boston  boat  go  by,  not  thinking  of 
anything  special,  when  I  heard  the  door  on  the 
other  side  of  the  tower  open  and  footsteps  coming 
around  to  me. 

By  and  by  I  nodded  toward  the  boat  and 
passed  the  remark  that  she  was  fetching  in  un 
common  close  to-night.  No  answer.  I  made 
nothing  of  that,  for  oftentimes  Fedderson  would 
n't  answer,  and  after  I'd  watched  the  lights 
crawling  on  through  the  dark  a  spell,  just  to  make 
conversation  I  said  I  guessed  there' d  be  a  bit  of 
weather  before  long. 

"I've  noticed,"  said  I,  "when  there's  weather 
coming  on,  and  the  wind  in  the  northeast,  you 
can  hear  the  orchestra  playing  aboard  of  her 
just  over  there.  I  make  it  out  now.  Do  you?" 

"Yes.    Oh— yes!    /  hear  it  all  right!"  ' 

You  can  imagine  I  started.  It  wasn't  him,  but 
her.  And  there  was  something  in  the  way  she 
said  that  speech,  sir — something — well — un 
natural.  Like  a  hungry  animal  snapping  at  a 
person's  hand. 

I  turned  and  looked  at  her  sidewise.  She  was 
standing  by  the  railing,  leaning  a  little  outward, 
the  top  of  her  from  the  waist  picked  out  bright 
by  the  lens  behind  her.  I  didn't  know  what  in  the 
world  to  say,  and  yet  I  had  a  feeling  I  ought  not 
to  sit  there  mum. 

"I  wonder,"  said  I,  "what  that  captain's 
thinking  of,  fetching  in  so  handy  to-night.  It's 

37 


LAND'S  END 

no  way.  I  tell  you,  if  'twasn't  for  this  light, 
she'd  go  to  work  and  pile  up  on  the  ledge  some 
thick  night—" 

She  turned  at  that  and  stared  straight  into  the 
lens.  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  her  face.  Some 
how,  with  its  edges  cut  hard  all  around  and  its 
two  eyes  closed  down  to  slits,  like  a  cat's,  it  made 
a  kind  of  mask. 

"And  then/'  I  went  on,  uneasy  enough — 
"and  then  where'd  all  their  music  be  of  a  sudden, 
and  their  goings-on  and  their  singing — " 

"And  dancing!"  She  clipped  me  off  so  quick 
it  took  my  breath. 

"D-d-dancing?"  said  I. 

"That's  dance-music,"  said  she.  She  was 
looking  at  the  boat  again. 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  felt  I  had  to  keep  on 
talking. 

Well,  sir — she  laughed.  I  looked  at  her. 
She  had  on  a  shawl  of  some  stuff  or  other  that 
shined  in  the  light;  she  had  it  pulled  tight  around 
her  with  her  two  hands  in  front  at  her  breast, 
and  I  saw  her  shoulders  swaying  in  tune. 

"How  do  I  knowf  she  cried.  Then  she 
laughed  again,  the  same  kind  of  a  laugh.  It  was 
queer,  sir,  to  see  her,  and  to  hear  her.  She 
turned,  as  quick  as  that,  and  leaned  toward  me. 
"Don't  you  know  how  to  dance,  Ray?"  said 
she. 

"N-no,"  I  managed,  and  I  was  going  to  say 

"  Aunt  Anna"  but  the  thing  choked  in  my  throat. 

38 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

I  tell  you  she  was  looking  square  at  me  all  the 
time  with  her  two  eyes  and  moving  with  the 
music  as  if  she  didn't  know  it.  By  heavens, 
sir,  it  came  over  me  of  a  sudden  that  she  wasn't 
so  bad-looking,  after  all.  I  guess  I  must  have 
sounded  like  a  fool. 

"  You — you  see,"  said  I,  "she's  cleared  the  rip 
there  now,  and  the  music's  gone.  You — you — 
hear?" 

"Yes,"  said  she,  turning  back  slow.  "That's 
where  it  stops  every  night — night  after  night — 
it  stops  just  there — at  the  rip." 

When  she  spoke  again  her  voice  was  different. 
I  never  heard  the  like  of  it,  thin  and  taut  as  a 
thread.  It  made  me  shiver,  sir. 

"I  hate  'em!"  That's  what  she  said.  "I 
hate  'em  all.  I'd  like  to  see  'em  dead.  I'd  love 
to  see  'em  torn  apart  on  the  rocks,  night  after 
night.  I  could  bathe  my  hands  in  their  blood, 
night  after  night." 

And  do  you  know,  sir,  I  saw  it  with  my  own 
eyes,  her  hands  moving  in  each  other  above  the 
rail.  But  it  was  her  voice,  though.  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do,  or  what  to  say,  so  I  poked  my 
head  through  the  railing  and  looked  down  at  the 
water.  I  don't  think  I'm  a  coward,  sir,  but  it 
was  like  a  cold — ice-cold — hand,  taking  hold  of 
my  beating  heart. 

When  I  looked  up  finally,  she  was  gone.  By 
and  by  I  went  in  and  had  a  look  at  the  lamp, 

hardly  knowing  what  I  was  about.    Then,  seeing 

39 


LAND'S  END 

by  my  watch  it  was  time  for  the  old  man  to  come 
on  duty,  I  started  to  go  below.  In  the  Seven 
Brothers,  you  understand,  the  stair  goes  down  in 
a  spiral  through  a  well  against  the  south  wall, 
and  first  there's  the  door  to  the  keeper's  room, 
and  then  you  come  to  another,  and  that's  the 
living-room,  and  then  down  to  the  store-room. 
And  at  night,  if  you  don't  carry  a  lantern,  it's 
as  black  as  the  pit. 

Well,  down  I  went,  sliding  my  hand  along  the 
rail,  and  as  usual  I  stopped  to  give  a  rap  on  the 
keeper's  door,  in  case  he  was  taking  a  nap  after 
supper.  Sometimes  he  did. 

I  stood  there,  blind  as  a  bat,  with  my  mind 
still  up  on  the  walk-around.  There  was  no 
answer  to  my  knock.  I  hadn't  expected  any. 
Just  from  habit,  and  with  my  right  foot  already 
hanging  down  for  the  next  step,  I  reached  out  to 
give  the  door  one  more  tap  for  luck. 

Do  you  know,  sir,  my  hand  didn't  fetch  up  on 
anything.  The  door  had  been  there  a  second 
before,  and  now  the  door  wasn't  there.  My  hand 
just  went  on  going  through  the  dark,  on  and  on, 
and  I  didn't  seem  to  have  sense  or  power  enough 
to  stop  it.  There  didn't  seem  any  air  in  the  well 
to  breathe,  and  my  ears  were  drumming  to  the 
surf — that's  how  scared  I  was.  And  then  my 
hand  touched'  the  flesh  of  a  face,  and  something 
in  the  dark  said,  "Oh!"  no  louder  than  a  sigh. 

Next  thing  I  knew,  sir,  I  was  down  in  the 
living-room,  warm  and  yellow-lit,  with  Fedderson 

40 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

cocking  his  head  at  me  across  the  table,  where  he 
was  at  that  eternal  Jacobus-ladder  of  his. 

" What's  the  matter,  Ray?"  said  he.  "Lord's 
sake,  Ray!" 

" Nothing,"  said  I.  Then  I  think  I  told  him  I 
was  sick.  That  night  I  wrote  a  letter  to  A.  L. 
Peters,  the  grain-dealer  in  Duxbury,  asking  for  a 
job — even  though  it  wouldn't  go  ashore  for  a 
couple  of  weeks,  just  the  writing  of  it  made  me 
feel  better. 

It's  hard  to  tell  you  how  those  two  weeks 
went  by.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  felt  like  hid 
ing  in  a  corner  all  the  time.  I  had  to  come  to 
meals.  But  I  didn't  look  at  her,  though,  not 
once,  unless  it  was  by  accident.  Fedderson 
thought  I  was  still  ailing  and  nagged  me  to  death 
with  advice  and  so  on.  One  thing  I  took  care  not 
to  do,  I  can  tell  you,  and  that  was  to  knock  on 
his  door  till  I'd  made  certain  he  wasn't  below  in 
the  living-room — though  I  was  tempted  to. 

Yes,  sir;  that's  a  queer  thing,  and  I  wouldn't 
tell  you  if  I  hadn't  set  out  to  give  you  the  truth. 
Night  after  night,  stopping  there  on  the  landing 
in  that  black  pit,  the  air  gone  out  of  my  lungs 
and  the  surf  drumming  in  my  ears  and  sweat 
standing  cold  on  my  neck — and  one  hand  lifting 
up  in  the  air — God  forgive  me,  sir!  Maybe  I  did 
wrong  not  to  look  at  her  more,  drooping  about 
her  work  in  her  gingham  apron,  with  her  hair 
stringing. 

When  the  Inspector  came  off  with  the  tender, 
41 


LAND'S  END 

that  time,  I  told  him  I  was  through.  That's 
when  he  took  the  dislike  to  me,  I  guess,  for  he 
looked  at  me  kind  of  sneering  and  said,  soft  as  I 
was,  I'd  have  to  put  up  with  it  till  next  relief. 
And  then,  said  he,  there'd  be  a  whole  house- 
cleaning  at  Seven  Brothers,  because  he'd  gotten 
Fedderson  the  berth  at  Kingdom  Come.  And 
with  that  he  slapped  the  old  man  on  the  back. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Fedderson,  sir. 
He  sat  down  on  my  cot  as  if  his  knees  had  given 
'way.  Happy?  You'd  think  he'd  be  happy, 
with  all  his  dreams  come  true.  Yes,  he  was 
happy,  beaming  all  over — for  a  minute.  Then, 
sir,  he  began  to  shrivel  up.  It  was  like  seeing  a 
man  cut  down  in  his  prime  before  your  eyes. 
He  began  to  wag  his  head. 

"No,"  said  he.  "No,  no;  it's  not  for  such  as 
me.  I'm  good  enough  for  Seven  Brothers,  and 
that's  all,  Mr.  Bayliss.  That's  all." 

And  for  all  the  Inspector  could  say,  that's 
what  he  stuck  to.  He'd  figured  himself  a  martyr 
so  many  years,  nursed  that  injustice  like  a  mother 
with  her  first-born,  sir;  and  now  in  his  old  age,  so 
to  speak,  they  weren't  to  rob  him  of  it.  Fedder 
son  was  going  to  wear  out  his  life  in  a  second-class 
light,  and  folks  would  talk — that  was  his  idea. 
I  heard  him  hailing  down  as  the  tender  was 
casting  off: 

"See  you  to-morrow,  Mr.  Bayliss.  Yep. 
Coming  ashore  with  the  wife  for  a  spree.  Anni 
versary.  Yep." 

42 


THE    WOMAN   AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

But  he  didn't  sound  much  like  a  spree.  They 
had  robbed  him,  partly,  after  all.  I  wondered 
what  she  thought  about  it.  I  didn't  know  till 
night.  She  didn't  show  up  to  supper,  which 
Fedderson  and  I  got  ourselves — had  a  headache, 
he  said.  It  was  my  early  watch.  I  went  and  lit 
up  and  came  back  to  read  a  spell.  He  was 
finishing  off  the  Jacob 's-ladder,  and  thoughtful, 
like  a  man  that's  lost  a  treasure.  Once  or  twice 
I  caught  him  looking  about  the  room  on  the  sly. 
It  was  pathetic,  sir. 

Going  up  the  second  time,  I  stepped  out  on 
the  walk-around  to  have  a  look  at  things.  She 
was  there  on  the  seaward  side,  wrapped  in  that 
silky  thing.  A  fair  sea  was  running  across  the 
ledge  and  it  was  coming  on  a  little  thick — not  too 
thick.  Off  to  the  right  the  Boston  boat  was 
blowing,  whroom-whroom!  Creeping  up  on  us, 
quarter-speed.  There  was  another  fellow  behind 
her,  and  a  fisherman's  conch  farther  offshore. 

I  don't  know  why,  but  I  stopped  beside  her 
and  leaned  on  the  rail.  She  didn't  appear  to 
notice  me,  one  way  or  another.  We  stood  and 
we  stood,  listening  to  the  whistles,  and  the  longer 
we  stood  the  more  it  got  on  my  nerves,  her  not 
noticing  me.  I  suppose  she'd  been  too  much  on 
my  mind  lately.  I  began  to  be  put  out.  I 
scraped  my  feet.  I  coughed.  By  and  by  I  said 
out  loud : 

"Look  here,  I  guess  I  better  get  out  the  fog 
horn  and  give  those  fellows  a  toot." 

43 


LAND'S  END 

"Why?"  said  she,  without  moving  her  head — 
calm  as  that. 

"Why?"  It  gave  me  a  turn,  sir.  For  a 
minute  I  stared  at  her.  "Why?  Because  if  she 
don't  pick  up  this  light  before  very  many 
minutes  she'll  be  too  close  in  to  wear — tide  '11 
have  her  on  the  rocks — that's  why!" 

I  couldn't  see  her  face,  but  I  could  see  one  of 
her  silk  shoulders  lift  a  little,  like  a  shrug.  And 
there  I  kept  on  staring  at  her,  a  dumb  one,  sure 
enough.  I  know  what  brought  me  to  was  hearing 
the  Boston  boat's  three  sharp  toots  as  she  picked 
up  the  light — mad  as  anything — and  swung  her 
helm  a-port.  I  turned  away  from  her,  sweat 
stringing  down  my  face,  and  walked  around  to 
the  door.  It  was  just  as  well,  too,  for  the  feed 
pipe  was  plugged  in  the  lamp  and  the  wicks  were 
popping.  She'd  have  been  out  in  another  five 
minutes,  sir. 

When  I'd  finished,  I  saw  that  woman  standing 
in  the  doorway.  Her  eyes  were  bright.  I  had  a 
horror  of  her,  sir,  a  living  horror. 

"If  only  the  light  had  been  out,"  said  she, 
low  and  sweet. 

"God  forgive  you,"  said  I.  "You  don't 
know  what  you're  saying." 

She  went  down  the  stair  into  the  well,  winding 
out  of  sight,  and  as  long  as  I  could  see  her,  her 
eyes  were  watching  mine.  When  I  went,  myself, 
after  a  few  minutes,  she  was  waiting  for  me  on 

that  first  landing,   standing  still  in  the  dark. 

44 


THE    WOMAN    AT   SEVEN    BROTHERS 

She  took  hold  of  my  hand,  though  I  tried  to  get 
it  away. 

"Good-by,"  said  she  in  my  ear. 

"Good-by?"  said  I.    I  didn't  understand. 

"You  heard  what  he  said  to-day — about 
Kingdom  Come?  Be  it  so — on  his  own  head. 
I'll  never  come  back  here.  Once  I  set  foot 
ashore  —  I've  got  friends  in  Brightonboro, 
Ray." 

I  got  away  from  her  and  started  on  down. 
But  I  stopped.  "  Brightonboro?"  I  whispered 
back.  "Why  do  you  tell  me?"  My  throat  was 
raw  to  the  words,  like  a  sore. 

"So  you'd  know,"  said  she. 

Well,  sir,  I  saw  them  off  next  morning,  down 
that  new  Jacob 's-ladder  into  the  dinghy-boat, 
her  in  a  dress  of  blue  velvet  and  him  in  his  best 
cutaway  and  derby — rowing  away,  smaller  and 
smaller,  the  two  of  them.  And  then  I  went  back 
and  sat  on  my  cot,  leaving  the  door  open  and  the 
ladder  still  hanging  down  the  wall,  along  with  the 
boat-falls. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  relief,  or  what. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  been  worked  up  even  more 
than  I'd  thought  those  past  weeks,  for  now  it 
was  all  over  I  was  like  a  rag.  I  got  down  on  my 
knees,  sir,  and  prayed  to  God  for  the  salvation 
of  my  soul,  and  when  I  got  up  and  climbed  to 
the  living-room  it  was  half  past  twelve  by  the 
clock.  There  was  rain  on  the  windows  and  the 
sea  was  running  blue-black  under  the  sun.  I'd 

45 


LAND'S  END 

sat  there  all  that  time  not  knowing  there  was  a 
squall. 

It  was  funny;  the  glass  stood  high,  but  those 
black  squalls  kept  coming  and  going  all  after 
noon,  while  I  was  at  work  up  in  the  light-room. 
And  I  worked  hard,  to  keep  myself  busy.  First 
thing  I  knew  it  was  five,  and  no  sign  of  the  boat 
yet.  It  began  to  get  dim  and  kind  of  purplish- 
gray  over  the  land.  The  sun  was  down.  I  lit 
up,  made  everything  snug,  and  got  out  the 
night-glasses  to  have  another  look  for  that  boat. 
He'd  said  he  intended  to  get  back  before  five. 
No  sign.  And  then,  standing  there,  it  came  over 
me  that  of  course  he  wouldn't  be  coming  off — 
he'd  be  hunting  her,  poor  old  fool.  It  looked  like 
I  had  to  stand  two  men's  watches  that  night. 

Never  mind.  I  felt  like  myself  again,  even  if 
I  hadn't  had  any  dinner  or  supper.  Pride  came 
to  me  that  night  on  the  walk-around,  watching 
the  boats  go  by— little  boats,  big  boats,  the 
Boston  boat  with  all  her  pearls  and  her  dance- 
music.  They  couldn't  see  me;  they  didn't  know 
who  I  was ;  but  to  the  last  of  them,  they  depended 
on  me.  They  say  a  man  must  be  born  again. 
Well,  I  was  born  again.  I  breathed  deep  in  the 
wind. 

Dawn  broke  hard  and  red  as  a  dying  coal. 
I  put  out  the  light  and  started  to  go  below. 
Born  again;  yes,  sir.  I  felt  so  good  I  whistled 
in  the  well,  and  when  I  came  to  that  first  door 
on  the  stair  I  reached  out  in  the  dark  to  give  it  a 

46 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

rap  for  luck.  And  then,  sir,  the  hair  prickled  all 
over  my  scalp,  when  I  found  my  hand  just  going 
on  and  on  through  the  air,  the  same  as  it  had 
gone  once  before,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  wanted 
to  yell,  because  I  thought  I  was  going  to  touch 
flesh.  It's  funny  what  their  just  forgetting  to 
close  their  door  did  to  me,  isn't  it? 

Well,  I  reached  for  the  latch  and  pulled  it  to 
with  a  bang  and  ran  down  as  if  a  ghost  was  after 
me.  I  got  up  some  coffee  and  bread  and  bacon 
for  breakfast.  I  drank  the  coffee.  But  somehow 
I  couldn't  eat,  all  along  of  that  open  door.  The 
light  in  the  room  was  blood.  I  got  to  thinking. 
I  thought  how  she'd  talked  about  those  men, 
women  and  children  on  the  rocks,  and  how  she'd 
made  to  bathe  her  hands  over  the  rail.  I  almost 
jumped  out  of  my  chair  then;  it  seemed  for  a  wink 
she  was  there  beside  the  stove  watching  me  with 
that  queer  half-smile — really,  I  seemed  to  see  her 
for  a  flash  across  the  red  table-cloth  in  the  red 
light  of  dawn. 

"Look  here!"  said  I  to  myself,  sharp  enough; 
and  then  I  gave  myself  a  good  laugh  and  went 
below.  There  I  took  a  look  out  of  the  door, 
which  was  still  open,  with  the  ladder  hanging 
down.  I  made  sure  to  see  the  poor  old  fool 
come  pulling  around  the  point  before  very  long 
now. 

My  boots  were  hurting  a  little,  and,  taking 
them  off,  I  lay  down  on  the  cot  to  rest,  and  some 
how  I  went  to  sleep.  I  had  horrible  dreams.  I 

47 


LAND'S  END 

saw  her  again  standing  in  that  blood-red  kitchen, 
and  she  seemed  to  be  washing  her  hands,  and  the 
surf  on  the  ledge  was  whining  up  the  tower, 
louder  and  louder  all  the  time,  and  what  it 
whined  was,  "  Night  after  night — night  after 
night."  What  woke  me  was  cold  water  in  my 
face. 

The  store-room  was  in  gloom.  That  scared 
me  at  first;  I  thought  night  had  come,  and  re 
membered  the  light.  But  then  I  saw  the  gloom 
was  of  a  storm.  The  floor  was  shining  wet,  and 
the  water  in  my  face  was  spray,  flung  up  through 
the  open  door.  When  I  ran  to  close  it  it  almost 
made  me  dizzy  to  see  the  gray-and-white  breakers 
marching  past.  The  land  was  gone;  the  sky  shut 
down  heavy  overhead;  there  was  a  piece  of 
wreckage  on  the  back  of  a  swell,  and  the  Jacob's- 
ladder  was  carried  clean  away.  How  that  sea 
had  picked  up  so  quick  I  can't  think.  I  looked 
at  my  watch  and  it  wasn't  four  in  the  afternoon 
yet. 

When  I  closed  the  door,  sir,  it  was  almost 
dark  in  the  store-room.  I'd  never  been  in  the 
Light  before  in  a  gale  of  wind.  I  wondered  why 
I  was  shivering  so,  till  I  found  it  was  the  floor 
below  me  shivering,  and  the  walls  and  stair. 
Horrible  crunchings  and  grindings  ran  away  up 
the  tower,  and  now  and  then  there  was  a  great 
thud  somewhere,  like  a  cannon-shot  in  a  cave. 
I  tell  you,  sir,  I  was  alone,  and  I  was  in  a  mortal 
fright  for  a  minute  or  so.  And  yet  I  had  to  get 

48 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

myself  together.  There  was  the  light  up  there 
not  tended  to,  and  an  early  dark  coming  on  and  a 
heavy  night  and  all,  and  I  had  to  go.  And  I  had 
to  pass  that  door. 

You'll  say  it's  foolish,  sir,  and  maybe  it  was 
foolish.  Maybe  it  was  because  I  hadn't  eaten. 
But  I  began  thinking  of  that  door  up  there  the 
minute  I  set  foot  on  the  stair,  and  all  the  way  up 
through  that  howling  dark  well  I  dreaded  to  pass 
it.  I  told  myself  I  wouldn't  stop.  I  didn't  stop. 
I  felt  the  landing  underfoot  and  I  went  on,  four 
steps,  five — and  then  I  couldn't.  I  turned  and 
went  back.  I  put  out  my  hand  and  it  went  on 
into  nothing.  That  door,  sir,  was  open  again. 

I  left  it  be;  I  went  on  up  to  the  light-room  and 
set  to  work.  It  was  Bedlam  there,  sir,  screeching 
Bedlam,  but  I  took  no  notice.  I  kept  my  eyes 
down.  I  trimmed  those  seven  wicks,  sir,  as  neat 
as  ever  they  were  trimmed;  I  polished  the  brass 
till  it  shone,  and  I  dusted  the  lens.  It  wasn't  till 
that  was  done  that  I  let  myself  look  back  to 
see  who  it  was  standing  there,  half  out  of  sight 
in  the  well.  It  was  her,  sir. 

"Where'd  you  come  from?"  I  asked.  I  re 
member  my  voice  was  sharp. 

"Up  Jacob's-ladder,"  said  she,  and  hers  was 
like  the  syrup  of  flowers. 

I  shook  my  head.  I  was  savage,  sir.  "The 
ladder's  carried  away." 

"I  cast  it  off,"  said  she,  with  a  smile. 

"Then,"  said  I,  "you  must  have  come  while  I 
4  49 


LAND'S  END 

was  asleep."  'Another  thought  came  on  me 
heavy  as  a  ton  of  lead.  "And  where's  he?"  said 
I.  "  Where's  the  boat?'' 

"He's  drowned,"  said  she,  as  easy  as  that. 
"And  I  let  the  boat  go  adrift.  You  wouldn't 
hear  me  when  I  called." 

"But  look  here,"  said  I.  "If  you  came 
through  the  store-room,  why  didn't  you  wake  me 
up?  Tell  me  that!"  It  sounds  foolish  enough, 
me  standing  like  a  lawyer  in  court,  trying  to 
prove  she  couldn't  be  there. 

She  didn't  answer  for  a  moment.  I  guess  she 
sighed,  though  I  couldn't  hear  for  the  gale,  and 
her  eyes  grew  soft,  sir,  so  soft. 

"I  couldn't,"  said  she.  "You  looked  so 
peaceful — dear  one." 

My  cheeks  and  neck  went  hot,  sir,  as  if  a  warm 
iron  was  laid  on  them.  I  didn't  know  what  to 
say.  I  began  to  stammer,  "What  do  you 
mean — "  but  she  was  going  back  down  the  stair, 
out  of  sight.  My  God!  sir,  and  I  used  not  to 
think  she  was  good-looking! 

I  started  to  follow  her.  I  wanted  to  know  what 
she  meant.  Then  I  said  to  myself,  "If  I  don't 
go — if  I  wait  here — she'll  come  back."  And  I 
went  to  the  weather  side  and  stood  looking  out  of 
the  window.  .Not  that  there  was  much  to  see. 
It  was  growing  dark,  and  the  Seven  Brothers 
looked  like  the  mane  of  a  running  horse,  a  great, 
vast,  white  horse  running  into  the  wind.  The 
air  was  a-welter  with  it.  I  caught  one  peep  of 

50 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

a  fisherman,  lying  down  flat  trying  to  weather 
the  ledge,  and  I  said,  "God  help  them  all  to 
night/'  and  then  I  went  hot  at  sound  of  that 
"God." 

I  was  right  about  her,  though.  She  was  back 
again.  I  wanted  her  to  speak  first,  before  I 
turned,  but  she  wouldn't.  I  didn't  hear  her  go 
out;  I  didn't  know  what  she  was  up  to  till  I  saw 
her  coming  outside  on  the  walk-around,  drenched 
wet  already.  I  pounded  on  the  glass  for  her  to 
come  in  and  not  be  a  fool;  if  she  heard  she  gave 
no  sign  of  it. 

There  she  stood,  and  there  I  stood  watching 
her.  Lord,  sir — was  it  just  that  I'd  never  had 
eyes  to  see?  Or  are  there  women  who  bloom? 
Her  clothes  were  shining  on  her,  like  a  carving, 
and  her  hair  was  let  down  like  a  golden  curtain 
tossing  and  streaming  in  the  gale,  and  there  she 
stood  with  her  lips  half  open,  drinking,  and  her 
eyes  half  closed,  gazing  straight  away  over  the 
Seven  Brothers,  and  her  shoulders  swaying,  as 
if  in  tune  with  the  wind  and  water  and  all  the 
ruin.  And  when  I  looked  at  her  hands  over  the 
rail,  sir,  they  were  moving  in  each  other  as  if 
they  bathed,  and  then  I  remembered,  sir. 

A  cold  horror  took  me.  I  knew  now  why  she 
had  come  back  again.  She  wasn't  a  woman- 
she  was  a  devil.  I  turned  my  back  on  her.  I 
said  to  myself:  "It's  time  to  light  up.  You've 
got  to  light  up" — like  that,  over  and  over,  out 

loud.    My  hand  was  shivering  so  I  could  hardly 

51 


LAND'S  END 

find  a  match;  and  when  I  scratched  it,  it  only 
flared  a  second  and  then  went  out  in  the  back 
draught  from  the  open  door.  She  was  standing 
in  the  doorway,  looking  at  me.  It's  queer,  sir, 
but  I  felt  like  a  child  caught  in  mischief. 

"I — I — was  going  to  light  up,"  I  managed  to 
say,  finally. 

"Why?"  said  she.  No,  I  can't  say  it  as  she 
did. 

"Why?"  said  I.    "My  God!" 

She  came  nearer,  laughing,  as  if  with  pity, 
low,  you  know.  "Your  God?  And  who  is  your 
God?  What  is  God?  What  is  anything  on  a 
night  like  this?" 

I  drew  back  from  her.  All  I  could  say  anything 
about  was  the  light. 

"Why  not  the  dark?"  said  she.  "Dark  is 
softer  than  light — tenderer — dearer  than  light. 
From  the  dark  up  here,  away  up  here  in  the 
wind  and  storm,  we  can  watch  the  ships  go  by, 
you  and  I.  And  you  love  me  so.  You've  loved 
me  so  long,  Ray." 

"I  never  have!"  I  struck  out  at  her.  "I 
don't!  I  don't!" 

Her  voice  was  lower  than  ever,  but  there  was 
the  same  laughing  pity  in  it.  "Oh  yes,  you 
have."  And  she  was  near  me  again. 

"I  have?"  I  yelled.  "I'll  show  you!  I'll 
show  you  if  I  have!" 

I  got  another  match,  sir,  and  scratched  it  on 
the  brass.  I  gave  it  to  the  first  wick,  the  little 

52 


THE    WOMAN    AT   SEVEN    BROTHERS 

wick  that's  inside  all  the  others.  It  bloomed  like 
a  yellow  flower.  "I  have?"  I  yelled,  and  gave  it 
to  the  next. 

Then  there  was  a  shadow,  and  I  saw  she  was 
leaning  beside  me,  her  two  elbows  on  the  brass, 
her  two  arms  stretched  out  above  the  wicks,  her 
bare  forearms  and  wrists  and  hands.  I  gave  a 
gasp: 

"Take  care!  You'll  burn  them!  For  God's 
sake- 
She  didn't  move  or  speak.  The  match  burned 
my  fingers  and  went  out,  and  all  I  could  do  was 
stare  at  those  arms  of  hers,  helpless.  I'd  never 
noticed  her  arms  before.  They  were  rounded  and 
graceful  and  covered  with  a  soft  down,  like  a 
breath  of  gold.  Then  I  heard  her  speaking,  close 
to  my  ear : 

" Pretty  arms,"  she  said.  "Pretty  arms!" 
I  turned.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine.  They 
seemed  heavy,  as  if  with  sleep,  and  yet  between 
their  lids  they  were  two  wells,  deep  and  deep, 
and  as  if  they  held  all  the  things  I'd  ever  thought 
or  dreamed  in  them.  I  looked  away  from  them, 
at  her  lips.  Her  lips  were  red  as  poppies,  heavy 
with  redness.  They  moved,  and  I  heard  them 
speaking : 

"Poor  boy,  you  love  me  so,  and  you  want  to 
kiss  me — don't  you?" 

"No,"  said  I.  But  I  couldn't  turn  around. 
I  looked  at  her  hair.  I'd  always  thought  it  was 

Ftringy  hair.     Some  hair  curls  naturally  with 

63 


LAND'S  END 

damp,  they  say,  and  perhaps  that  was  it,  for  there 
were  pearls  of  wet  on  it,  and  it  was  thick  and 
shimmering  around  her  face,  making  soft  shadows 
by  the  temples.  There  was  green  in  it,  queer 
strands  of  green  like  braids. 

"What  is  it?"  said  I. 

"Nothing  but  weed/'  said  she,  with  that  slow, 
sleepy  smile. 

Somehow  or  other  I  felt  calmer  than  I  had 
any  time.  "Look  here/7  said  I.  "I'm  going  to 
light  this  lamp."  I  took  out  a  match,  scratched 
it,  and  touched  the  third  wick.  The  flame  ran 
around,  bigger  than  the  other  two  together. 
But  still  her  arms  hung  there.  I  bit  my  lip. 
"By  God,  I  will!"  said  I  to  myself,  and  I  lit  the 
fourth. 

It  was  fierce,  sir,  fierce!  And  yet  those  arms 
never  trembled.  I  had  to  look  around  at  her. 
Her  eyes  were  still  looking  into  mine,  so  deep  and 
deep,  and  her  red  lips  were  still  smiling  with  that 
queer  sleepy  droop;  the  only  thing  was  that  tears 
were  raining  down  her  cheeks — big,  glowing 
round,  jewel  tears.  It  wasn't  human,  sir.  It  was 
like  a  dream. 

"Pretty  arms,"  she  sighed,  and  then,  as  if 
those  words  had  broken  something  in  her  heart, 
there  came  a  great  sob  bursting  from  her  lips. 
To  hear  it  drove  me  mad.  I  reached  to  drag  her 
away,  but  she  was  too  quick,  sir;  she  cringed 
from  me  and  slipped  out  from  between  my  hands. 
It  was  like  she  faded  away,  sir,  and  went  down 

54 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

in  a  bundle,  nursing  her  poor  arms  and  mourning 
over  them  with  those  terrible,  broken  sobs. 

The  sound  of  them  took  the  manhood  out  of  me 
— you'd  have  been  the  same,  sir.  I  knelt  down 
beside  her  on  the  floor  and  covered  my  face. 

"  Please,"  I  moaned.  "Please!  Please!" 
That's  all  I  could  say.  I  wanted  her  to  forgive 
me.  I  reached  out  a  hand,  blind,  for  forgiveness, 
and  I  couldn't  find  her  anywhere.  I  had  hurt 
her  so,  and  she  was  afraid  of  me,  of  me,  sir,  who 
loved  her  so  deep  it  drove  me  crazy. 

I  could  see  her  down  the  stair,  though  it  was 
dim  and  my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  I 
stumbled  after  her,  crying,  "Please!  Please!" 
The  little  wicks  I'd  lit  were  blowing  in  the  wind 
from  the  door  and  smoking  the  glass  beside  them 
black.  One  went  out.  I  pleaded  with  them,  the 
same  as  I  would  plead  with  a  human  being.  I  said 
I'd  be  back  in  a  second.  I  promised.  And  I  went 
on  down  the  stair,  crying  like  a  baby  because  I'd 
hurt  her,  and  she  was  afraid  of  me — of  me,  sir. 

She  had  gone  into  her  room.  The  door  was 
closed  against  me  and  I  could  hear  her  sobbing 
beyond  it,  broken-hearted.  My  heart  was  broken 
too.  I  beat  on  the  door  with  my  palms.  I  begged 
her  to  forgive  me.  I  told  her  I  loved  her.  And  all 
the  answer  was  that  sobbing  in  the  dark. 

And  then  I  lifted  the  latch  and  went  in,  grop 
ing,  pleading.  "Dearest — please!  Because  I  love 
you!" 

I  heard  her  speak  down  near  the  floor.  There 
55 


LAND'S  END 

wasn't  any  anger  in  her  voice;  nothing  but  sad 
ness  and  despair. 

"No,"  said  she.  "You  don't  love  me,  Ray. 
You  never  have." 

"I  do!    I  have!" 

"No,  no,"  said  she,  as  if  she  was  tired  out. 

"Where  are  you?"  I  was  groping  for  her. 
I  thought,  and  lit  a  match.  She  had  got  to  the 
door  and  was  standing  there  as  if  ready  to  fly. 
I  went  toward  her,  and  she  made  me  stop.  Sh6 
took  my  breath  away.  "I  hurt  your  arms," 
said  I,  in  a  dream. 

"No,"  said  she,  hardly  moving  her  lips.  She 
held  them  out  to  the  match's  light  for  me  to  look, 
and  there  was  never  a  scar  on  them — not  even 
that  soft,  golden  down  was  singed,  sir.  "You 
can't  hurt  my  body,"  said  she,  sad  as  anything. 
"Only  my  heart,  Ray;  my  poor  heart." 

I  tell  you  again,  she  took  my  breath  away. 
I  lit  another  match.  "How  can  you  be  so 
beautiful?"  I  wondered. 

She  answered  in  riddles — but  oh,  the  sadness 
of  her,  sir. 

"Because,"  said  she,  "I've  always  so  wanted 
to  be." 

"How  come  your  eyes  so  heavy?"  said  I. 

"Because  I've  seen  so  many  things  I  never 
dreamed  of,"  said  she. 

"How  come  your  hair  so  thick?" 

"It's  the  seaweed  makes  it  thick,"  said  she 
smiling  queer,  queer. 

56 


THE    WOMAN    AT    SEVEN    BROTHERS 

"How  come  seaweed  there?" 

"Out  of  the  bottom  of  the  sea." 

She  talked  in  riddles,  but  it  was  like  poetry 
to  hear  her,  or  a  song. 

"How  come  your  lips  so  red?"  said  I. 

"Because  they've  wanted  so  long  to  be  kissed." 

Fire  was  on  me,  sir.  I  reached  out  to  catch 
her,  but  she  was  gone,  out  of  the  door  and  down 
the  stair.  I  followed,  stumbling.  I  must  have 
tripped  on  the  turn,  for  I  remember  going 
through  the  air  and  fetching  up  with  a  crash, 
and  I  didn't  know  anything  for  a  spell — how 
long  I  can't  say.  When  I  came  to,  she  was  there, 
somewhere,  bending  over  me,  crooning,  "My 
love — my  love — "  under  her  breath  like,  a  song. 

But  then  when  I  got  up,  she  was  not  where 
my  arms  went;  she  was  down  the  stair  again,  just 
ahead  of  me.  I  followed  her.  I  was  tottering  and 
dizzy  and  full  of  pain.  I  tried  to  catch  up 
with  her  in  the  dark  of  the  store-room,  but 
she  was  too  quick  for  me,  sir,  always  a  little  too 
quick  for  me.  Oh,  she  was  cruel  to  me,  sir. 
I  kept  bumping  against  things,  hurting  myself 
still  worse,  and  it  was  cold  and  wet  and  a  horrible 
noise  all  the  while,  sir;  and  then,  sir,  I  found  the 
door  was  open,  and  a  sea  had  parted  the  hinges. 

I  don't  know  how  it  all  went,  sir.  I'd  tell  you 
if  I  could,  but  it's  all  so  blurred — sometimes  it 
seems  more  like  a  dream.  I  couldn't  find  her 
any  more;  I  couldn't  hear  her;  I  went  all  over, 

everywhere.    Once,  I  remember,  I  found  myself 

57 


LAND'S  END 

hanging  out  of  that  door  between  the  davits, 
looking  down  into  those  big  black  seas  and  crying 
like  a  baby.  It's  all  riddles  and  blur.  I  can't 
seem  to  tell  you  much,  sir.  It  was  all — all — I 
don't  know. 

I  was  talking  to  somebody  else — not  her.  It 
was  the  Inspector.  I  hardly  knew  it  was  the 
Inspector.  His  face  was  as  gray  as  a  blanket, 
and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot,  and  his  lips  were 
twisted.  His  left  wrist  hung  down,  awkward. 
It  was  broken  coming  aboard  the  Light  in  that 
sea.  Yes,  we  were  in  the  living-room.  Yes,  sir, 
it  was  daylight — gray  daylight.  I  tell  you,  sir, 
the  man  looked  crazy  to  me.  He  was  waving  his 
good  arm  toward  the  weather  windows,  and 
what  he  was  saying,  over  and  over,  was  this: 

"Look  what  you  done,  damn  you!  Look  what 
you  done!" 

And  what  I  was  saying  was  this: 

"I've  lost  her!" 

I  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  him,  nor  him  to 
me.  By  and  by  he  did,  though.  He  stopped  his 
talking  all  of  a  sudden,  and  his  eyes  looked  like 
the  devil's  eyes.  He  put  them  up  close  to  mine. 
He  grabbed  my  arm  with  his  good  hand,  and  I 
cried,  I  was  so  weak. 

" Johnson,"  said  he,  "is  that  it?  By  the 
living  God — if  you  got  a  woman  out  here, 
Johnson!" 

"No,"  said  I.    "I've  lost  her." 

"What  do  you  mean — lost  her?" 
58 


THE    WOMAN    AT   SEVEN    BROTHERS 

"It  was  dark,"  said  I — and  it's  funny  how  my 
head  was  clearing  up — "and  the  door  was  open— 
the  store-room  door — and  I  was  after  her — and  I 
guess  she  stumbled,  maybe — and  I  lost  her." 

" Johnson,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  mean? 
You  sound  crazy — downright  crazy.  Who?" 

"Her,"  said  I.    "Fedderson's  wife." 

"TFfcof" 

"  Her,"  said  I.  And  with  that  he  gave  my  arm 
another  jerk. 

"Listen,"  said  he,  like  a  tiger.  "Don't  try 
that  on  me.  It  won't  do  any  good — that  kind  of 
lies — not  where  you're  going  to.  Fedderson  and 
his  wife,  too — the  both  of  'em's  drowned  deader 
'n  a  door-nail." 

"I  know,"  said  I,  nodding  my  head.  I  was  so 
calm  it  made  him  wild. 

"You're  crazy!  Crazy  as  a  loon,  Johnson!" 
And  he  was  chewing  his  lip  red.  "I  know,  be 
cause  it  was  me  that  found  the  old  man  laying 
on  Back  Water  Flats  yesterday  morning — me! 
And  she'd  been  with  him  in  the  boat,  too,  because 
he  had  a  piece  of  her  jacket  tore  off,  tangled  in 
his  arm." 

"I  know,"  said  I,  nodding  again,  like  that. 

"You  know  what,  you  crazy,  murdering  fool?" 
Those  were  his  words  to  me,  sir. 

"I  know,"  said  I,  "what  I  know." 

"And  /  know,"  said  he,  "what  /  know." 

And  there  you  are,  sir.  He's  Inspector.  I'm— 
nobody." 


WHITE  HORSE  WINTER 

THE  little  house  where  I  was  born,  and  in 
which  I  passed  the  earlier  years  of  my  life, 
stands  about  a  hundred  yards  back  from  the 
beach  and  a  little  more  than  a  mile  down-shore 
from  Old  Harbor.  What  we  always  knew  as  the 
" Creek"  runs  in  there,  with  plenty  of  water  even 
at  low  tide  to  float  my  father's  dory;  and  the 
flawless  yellow  face  of  a  dune  used  to  stand  up 
behind  the  house,  sheltering  us  from  the  norther- 
lies  that  pick  the  scud  from  the  ocean,  a  mile  back 
across  the  Neck,  and  spatter  it  in  the  bay  at  our 
front  door.  My  father  and  mother  still  live  in 
the  house,  but  the  dune  has  shifted  to  the  west 
ward  and  it  is  colder  there  on  a  winter  night. 

My  older  sister  was  born  before  my  father  and 
mother  came  from  the  Western  Islands,  so  she 
had  a  recollection  of  green  country;  but  we 
younger  children  knew  nothing  but  the  water 
and  the  sand.  Strangely  enough,  my  most  vivid 
remembrance  of  the  water  is  not  from  any  of  its 
wilder  moods.  I  picture  it  with  the  tide  out  at 
evening,  reflecting  the  face  of  the  western  sky, 
flat,  garish-colored,  silent,  with  a  spur  of  mute 

60 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

fire  reaching  out  at  me  along  the  surface  of  the 
Creek. 

The  dunes  were  the  magic  land,  full  of  shifting 
shadows,  and  deceptive,  where  a  little  covey  of 
beach-plums  made  themselves  out  as  a  far-away 
and  impenetrable  forest,  especially  when  the  mist 
came  inland,  and  a  footprint  in  the  sand  across  a 
hollow  appeared  a  vast  convulsion  of  nature  at 
the  other  end  of  a.  day's  journey.  And  one  felt 
the  dunes  always  moving,  rising  up  out  of  the 
sea,  marching  silently  across  the  Neck,  and  ad 
vancing  upon  the  little  house.  I  can  remember 
the  spring  when  the  sand  ate  up  a  pear-tree  my 
father  had  brought  from  the  Islands. 

The  dunes  entered  our  lives  and  became  a 
part  of  them.  Even  now  the  sight  of  a  strip  of 
sand  gets  a  queer  grip  on  me,  and  to  this  day  I 
am  apt  to  catch  myself  spying  out  the  sky-line 
with  an  indefinable  and  portentous  dread.  I 
cannot  shake  off  this  sensation,  although  I  know 
perfectly  what  it  is.  It  is  a  relic  from  that  time 
which  we  have  always  called,  in  our  family, 
White  Horse  Winter. 

I  remember  my  father's  coming  in  one  October 
day  and  standing  a  long  time  before  the  barom 
eter  which  always  hung  behind  the  kitchen 
door.  After  a  while  he  said  to  my  mother,  in  his 
broken  English, — 

"It  weel  be  ver'  bad  weather  to-night— to 
morrow." 

That  night  when  I  was  trying  to  get  to  sleep 
61 


LAND'S  END 

I  heard  the  skirmishers  of  a  great  wind  feeling 
at  the  shingles  above  my  head. 

My  next  recollection  is  of  the  tumult  of  a  gale 
outside,  mingled  with  beating  on  the  door  down 
stairs,  and  distracted  fragments  of  men's  voices 
calling  to  one  another  of  a  vessel  come  ashore. 
I  knew  it  must  be  at  Round  Hill  or  they  would 
not  have  come  past  our  house. 

Then  I  was  out  myself,  where  no  boy  of  ten 
had  any  business  to  be,  isolated  in  the  center  of  a 
vast  disruption,  except  when  an  occasional 
agitated  phantom  passed  in  the  rocking  darkness 
toward  Round  Hill  Bars.  I  had  an  acute  con 
sciousness  of  doing  wrong,  and  with  all  the  fight 
to  keep  my  feet  in  the  chaos  of  sand  and  wind 
and  scud,  the  thought  of  what  my  father  would 
do  if  he  came  upon  me  lay  heavy  on  my  mind. 

After  a  time  one  of  the  shore-dunes  came  up 
before  me,  black,  with  an  aura  of  distracted  sand 
about  its  crest  and  the  sky  behind  it  gray  with 
the  labor  of  dawn.  The  silhouettes  of  men,  and 
of  a  few  women,  were  running  about  over  it  and 
pointing  to  sea  with  jerking  arms.  But  I  was 
afraid  to  go  up  there — still  with  the  fear  of  my 
father's  anger — so  I  ran  to  the  northward  in  the 
hollow  a  hundred  yards  or  so  before  I  felt  it  safe 
to  venture  upon  the  ridge,  where  I  cowered  down, 
a  very  small  and  very  tired-out  boy. 

It  was  a  full-rigged  ship.  Her  main  and  mizzen 
were  already  gone,  and  her  foremast  writhed  in 
dismal  and  contorted  circles  toward  the  sky,  a 

62 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

frail,  sensitive  needle-point  marking  every  on 
slaught  and  repulse  of  the  fight  below,  where  the 
vessel  wallowed  in  the  smother  between  the  outer 
and  inner  bars.  Inshore,  on  the  torn  and  clam 
orous  beach,  the  figures  of  the  life-saving  crew 
moved  about  their  boat  with  futile  gestures, 
lifting  curved  hands  to  their  faces  to  scream 
soundless  words  at  one  another.  The  wind  was 
like  a  blast  from  the  colossal  explosion  that  flared 
behind  the  eastern  clouds. 

But  it  was  the  water  that  fascinated  me  that 
morning.  The  Round  Hill  Bars  make  a  talking, 
even  in  a  moderate  breeze,  which  can  be  heard 
in  our  kitchen  across  the  Neck.  Now  their 
shouting  seemed  to  me  to  fill  up  the  whole  bowl 
of  the  visible  world,  rumbling  around  its  misty 
confines  in  tangled  reverberations.  I  could  see 
the  outer  bar  only  as  a  white,  distorted  line 
athwart  the  gray,  but  the  shoreward  shallows 
were  writhing,  living  things,  gnawing  at  the  sky 
with  venomous  teeth  of  spume,  and  giving  birth 
in  agony  to  the  legions  which  advanced  forever 
and  forever  upon  the  land. 

My  mother  used  sometimes  to  sing  a  little 
Portuguese  song  to  my  brother  Antone,  the  baby. 
It  had  a  part  which  ran — 

The  herd  of  the  Sea  King's  White  Horses 
Comes  up  on  the  shore  to  graze  .  .  . 

It  pleased  my  boy  mind  on  this  morning  rto 
figure  them  as  ravening,  stung  to  frenzy  by  the 

63 


LAND'S  END 

lash  of  the  gale,  tossing  maddened  manes,  and 
bellowing — for  horses  were  not  common  in  that 
fisher  country.  Try  as  I  might,  my  eyes  would 
not  stay  on  the  wreck,  but  returned  inevitably  to 
those  squadrons  of  white  horses  advancing  out  of 
the  mist.  They  were  very  fearsome  things  to  me 
at  that  time,  although  I  was  old  enough  to  know 
that  they  were  not  alive  and  could  not  possibly 
get  at  me. 

Then  a  tremendous  wave  broke  and  flattened 
out  in  a  smother  on  the  beach,  and  I  was  sure  for 
a  moment  I  had  seen  an  actual  horse  struggling 
there.  The  next  breaker  overwhelmed  the  place, 
swirling,  thunderous,  shot  its  thin  mottled  tongue 
far  up  the  sand  and  withdrew  it  seething  into  the 
undertow — and  now  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
a  horse  was  there,  screaming,  pawing  at  the  treach 
erous  sand,  his  wide,  glistening  back  horribly  con 
vulsed,  and  eyes  and  nostrils  of  flame. 

Many  and  many  a  time  since  then  I  have  had 
it  all  in  a  dream;  and  in  the  dream,  even  now, 
I  am  swept  back  into  something  of  the  elemental 
terror  that  held  the  boy  cowering  on  the  ridge 
of  sand  while  the  great  white  stallion  staggered 
up  the  face  of  the  dune  and  stood  against  the 
sky,  coughing  and  coughing  and  coughing. 

Of  a  sudden,  I  knew  that  I  must  run  away 
from  that  thing,  and  I  scrambled  out  of  my  little 
burrow  and  ran,  not  daring  to  look  back,  not 
daring  to  ease  my  pace  when  the  sand  dragged  too 

cruelly  at  my  shoes — ran  and  ran — till  I  found 

64 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

myself  in  the  safe  heaven  of  the  front  room  at  the 
little  house,  and  my  mother  stirring  a  pan  over 
the  kitchen  stove. 

I  staggered  out  to  her,  crying  that  a  horse  had 
come  out  of  the  water  and  run  after  me.  She 
thought  that  I  was  feverish,  had  had  a  bad  dream, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  need  not  let  her  know 
I  had  been  where  I  should  not  have  been  that 
morning.  She  packed  me  off  to  bed  again,  and 
when  I  woke  in  the  afternoon  I  was  of  even 
minds  myself  whether  I  had  dreamed  it  all  or  not. 
Certainly  it  was  cut  from  the  cloth  of  a  dream. 

During  the  weeks  that  followed  I  heard  a  deal 
about  the  wreck,  from  my  father  and  from  others 
who  came  past  on  the  state  road,  and  stopped  to 
chat.  It  was  a  bad  affair,  that  wreck.  The  shore 
people  could  see  her  men,  now  and  then  when  the 
rack  drifted  aside  for  a  moment,  swarming  over 
the  deck  like  ants  disturbed  by  a  pail  of  water. 
One  of  these  glimpses  showed  them  the  crew 
clustered  about  the  boats  on  the  lee  side,  and 
then  the  life-savers  burned  in  vain  the  signal 
which  means,  "Do  not  attempt  to  leave  in  your 
own  boats";  the  next  lifting  of  the  curtain  dis 
covered  the  ship's  decks  bare  of  life,  and  seven 
teen  bodies  were  dragged  from  the  surf  that  day. 

But  a  strange  thing  happened  when  the  life- 
savers  rowed  out  to  the  hulk  after  the  sea  had 
gone  down.  In  the  cabin  they  came  upon  a 
young  man,  dry-clothed,  sitting  before  a  fire  in 
the  stove,  plainly  much  shaken  by  the  ex- 

5  60 


LAND'S  END 

periences  of  the  night,  but  still  with  a  grip  on 
himself.  He  asked  if  the  boats  had  come  ashore 
all  right,  and  when  Captain  Hall  told  him,  he 
seemed  taken  aback. 

"  Nothing  come  ashore?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  alive,"  said  the  captain.  The  other 
looked  into  the  fire  awhile,  white  and  shaking  a 
little. 

"I  was  af eared  to  go  with  the  sailors,"  he  said, 
after  a  time. 

Of  course  the  story  did  not  come  to  me  in  this 
straight  sequence,  but  merely  as  haphazard 
snatches  from  the  gossip  of  my  elders,  some  of  it 
not  clearly  till  years  afterward — for  the  details 
of  a  great  wreck  are  treasured  among  people  of 
the  sea  as  long  as  the  generation  lasts. 

It  was  almost  a  week  before  I  went  out  on  the 
dunes  again.  Although  I  was  now  convinced 
that  I  had  seen  something  that  was  not,  still  even 
a  bad  dream  is  not  a  thing  for  a  child  to  shake  off 
lightly.  But  my  sister  Agnes' s  eighteenth  birth 
day  was  coming  soon  now,  and  it  was  always  a 
custom  in  our  family  to  signalize  such  events 
with  a  cake  and  bayberry  candles.  So  I  was  off 
this  day  to  the  north  of  Snail  Road,  where  the 
bottom  of  a  certain  hollow  is  covered  with  a  mat 
of  bayberry  bushes.  It  takes  a  good  many 
bayberries  to  make  even  a  small  candle,  and  the 
dark  was  beginning  to  come  down  when  the 
basket  was  filled  and  I  started  back  across  the 
sand-hills  toward  home. 

66 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

The  dunes  were  very  silent  and  very  misty 
and  very  lonely  that  evening;  I  trudged  along 
with  my  small  head  going  about  like  the  mythical 
owl's,  but  the  dusk  remained  empty  of  any  hor 
ror  till  I  had  come  across  Snail  Road  and  into  the 
region  of  black  sand  where  one  may  scoop  out  a 
little  hole  and  drink  fresh  water.  I  almost  always 
did  this,  whether  I  was  thirsty  or  not,  but  that 
night  I  was  saved  the  trouble  of  scooping  the 
hole — or  would  have  been  had  I  cared  to  take 
advantage  of  the  great  glistening  gash  that  lay  in 
my  path.  It  was  no  work  of  human  hands.  All 
about  the  place  the  sand  was  churned  and 
scarred  by  enormous,  deep  tracks,  and  a  double 
thread  of  them  led  away  over  the  eastern  sky 
line.  Then  I  was  running  again,  as  I  had  that 
other  morning,  running  all  the  way  to  the  little 
house,  careless  of  the  bayberries  that  strewed 
my  backward  trail. 

Two  nights  after,  we  were  all  sitting  around  the 
fire  in  our  kitchen.  There  was  no  wind  that 
evening  and  the  tide  was  down  beyond  the  flats, 
so  that  all  was  very  quiet  outside  the  little  house, 
and  a  note  of  distant  trumpeting  came  plain  to 
us  through  the  crisp  night.  It  was  surely  a  queer 
sound  for  our  country,  but  its  significance  passed 
me  till  my  father  spoke  to  my  mother. 

"It's  the  white  horse  again,"  he  said. 

My  mother  nodded,  without  curiosity  or 
surprise.  "  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  We  must  keep 

Zhoe" — that  was  I,  Joe — "off  the  dunes  more." 

67 


LAND'S  END 

But  they  could  not  keep  me  off  the  dunes  en 
tirely,  now  that  the  white  horse  had  become 
actual  and  an  object  of  common  gossip.  I  took 
an  adventurous  pleasure  in  climbing  to  the  top 
of  the  hill  behind  the  house  and  overlooking  the 
country  of  hummocks.  Especially  was  this  fine 
to  do  of  an  early  evening,  when  the  light  had  left 
the  sand  and  the  ridges  stood  out  black  against 
the  sky. 

I  saw  him  many  times  from  this  point  of 
security — always  as  a  dark,  far-away  silhouette, 
tremendous,  laboring  over  the  back  of  a  dune  or 
standing  with  his  great  head  flung  up  and  tail 
streaming  on  the  wind.  His  presence  there  gave 
the  whole  dune-land  a  new  aspect  for  me — as  of  a 
familiar  country  grown  sinister  and  full  of  the 
shadow  of  disaster.  Nights  when  the  wind  was 
northerly,  his  racketing  sometimes  came  to  me 
ifi  the  loft  where  my  cot  stood;  then  I  would 
shiver  under  the  clothes  and  fall  asleep  to  dream 
of  being  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  shifting  dunes, 
and  that  great,  shaggy,  white  beast  above  me 
on  a  ridge,  coughing  and  coughing  and  coughing. 
Once  he  must  have  come  plunging  down  the  face 
of  our  own  hill,  because  we  were  startled  by  a 
splashing  of  sand  on  the  shingles  of  an  outhouse, 
followed  by  a  great  snorting  and  a  ripping  of 
fence  timbers.  That  night  even  my  father  and 
mother  were  pale. 

For  I  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  afraid. 
Some  of  the  men  came  out  from  Old  Harbor 

68 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

with  lines  one  day  to  take  the  animal,  and  at 
first  sight  of  him,  suddenly,  over  the  angle  of  a 
dune,  dropped  their  entanglements  and  fled 
back  past  our  house,  running  heavily.  And  that 
was  in  the  flat  sunlight  of  midday.  After  that 
men  went  over  to  Round  Hill  Station  by  other 
and  circuitous  routes. 

One  of  these  evenings,  while  I  was  crouching 
on  the  hill  with  a  delightful  shiver  playing  along 
my  spine,  a  strange  man  came  up  and  stood  a  few 
yards  to  one  side  of  me,  looking  out  to  the  east 
ward.  The  white  horse  was  there,  perhaps  a 
half-mile  off,  outlined  against  a  bank  of  silver 
that  came  rolling  in  from  the  ocean.  The  new 
comer  regarded  him  a  long  time  without  moving ; 
then  I,  being  a  little  afraid  of  the  man,  slipped 
out  of  the  bushes  and  down  the  hill  to  the  little 
house. 

The  dusk  was  already  thick  when  he  came 
down  the  dune  and  stopped  to  pass  a  word  with 
my  father,  who  was  working  over  a  net  near  the 
gate.  I  remember  my  sister  Agnes  peering 
curiously  at  the  figure  indistinct  in  the  gloom, 
and  my  mother  whispering  to  her  that  it  was  the 
man  they  had  taken  off  the  wreck.  That  made 
a  tremendous  impression  on  me.  I  was  glad 
when  my  father  asked  him  to  sit  awhile  by  the 
fire. 

From  my  vantage-point  behind  my  mother's 
chair,  I  could  examine  him  better  than  I  dared  do 
on  the  ridge.  He  was  a  smallish  man,  of  a  wiry 


LAND'S  END 

build  rather  uncommon  among  our  own  people, 
whose  strength  is  apt  to  come  upon  them  with 
an  amount  of  flesh.  His  skin  was  not  brown,  but 
red,  hairy  about  the  wrists — I  thought  of  it  as 
brittle.  His  hair  was  almost  the  color  of  his  skin; 
his  features  were  heavy.  He  sat  or  stood  with 
elbows  out  and  thumbs  tucked  in  his  belt,  and  he 
had  little  to  say.  I  can  give  his  age  definitely  as 
twenty-eight  at  that  time. 

From  the  moment  he  entered,  the  stranger 
seemed  unable  to  keep  his  slow-moving  gray  eyes 
away  from  my  sister  Agnes,  who  stood  leaning 
against  the  door  which  led  into  the  front  room. 
Those  two  were  as  far  apart  as  the  two  poles. 
It  is  hard  for  a  small  boy  to  know  how  his  brothers 
and  sisters  really  appear,  but  looking  back  out  of 
later  years  I  remember  her  as  rather  tall  for  a 
girl,  full-formed,  straight,  dark  as  the  rest  of  us, 
and  with  a  look  of  contempt  in  her  black  eyes  for 
this  alien  whom  she  had  no  means  of  compre 
hending. 

For  a  time  my  father  talked  about  the  wreck, 
putting  questions,  hazarding  technical  opinions 
in  the  jargon  of  the  sea.  The  stranger's  replies 
were  monosyllabic  and  vague.  Then  in  a  pause 
the  neighing  of  the  white  horse  came  in  to  us,  and 
the  man  started  up  with  an  abrupt  scraping  of 
his  shoes  on  the  boards.  I  am  sure  that  Agnes 
believed  he  was  frightened  and  that  she  took  no 
pains  to  hide  it.  After  that  the  talk  turned  natu 
rally  on  the  white  horse,  going  back  and  forth 

70 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

between  my  father  and  mother,  for  the  stranger 
had  even  less  to  say  now  than  before. 

Jem  Hodges  (that  was  the  stranger's  name) 
came  the  following  day  and  sat  on  the  front  porch, 
watching  father,  who  was  tarring  weir  twine  in 
the  yard.  He  had  nothing  to  say — simply  sat 
there  with  his  thumbs  tucked  in  his  belt.  Agnes 
came  in  and  said  to  my  mother: 

"He's  a  dummy — I  never  seen  such  a  dummy, 


ma." 


"I  don'  know,  Aggie,"  my  mother  answered 
her.  "He  ain't  our  kind,  an'  you  can't  tell 
about  things  you  ain't  used  to." 

That  was  my  mother's  way. 

Agnes  flounced  out  of  the  kitchen  in  a  manner 
which  had  no  significance  to  me  then,  for  my 
rudimentary  wits  could  perceive  no  possible 
connection  between  her  action  and  the  silence  of 
the  little  man  on  the  porch  outside. 

I  think  I  can  say  now  what  the  connection  was. 
Among  other  things  the  world  has  taught  me 
this — that  no  two  men  do  the  same  thing  in 
exactly  the  same  way.  Jem  Hodges  was  wooing 
my  sister  Agnes.  Little  wonder  that  her  spirit 
was  restive  under  that  wooing,  when  all  the 
blood  of  the  race  in  her  veins  sang  of  the  lover's 
fervor,  the  quick  eye,  the  heart  speaking  in 
words,  the  abandon  of  caresses.  And  here  was  a 
man,  fulfilling  none  of  our  conventions  of  beauty, 
who  sat  imperturbable,  impassive,  saying  nothing, 
and  making  her  come  to  him.  I  am  sure  that  he 

71 


LAND'S  END 

did  it  without  planning  or  analyzing — I  think 
half  of  it  was  constraint  and  all  of  it  instinct. 
And  Agnes  might  flounce  out  of  the  room  as  she 
would;  sooner  or  later  I  saw  her  again  at  the 
front  of  the  house. 

This  went  on  for  two  or  three  weeks.  Jem 
Hodges  came  almost  every  day  to  sit  on  the  porch 
awhile,  after  which  he  sometimes  wandered 
away  in  the  growing  evening  over  our  own  dune. 
Again  and  again  I  saw  him  standing  there,  as  on 
the  first  evening,  for  a  long  time  without  motion, 
looking  over  the  hummocks.  Sometimes  I  could 
hear  him  whistling  under  his  breath  an  air  that 
was  very  strange  and  outlandish  to  me,  then, 
who  had  never  heard  the  like.  Many  years  later 
I  heard  one  of  the  great  tenors  of  the  world  sing 
the  same  air,  and  it  thrilled  me,  but  not  in  the 
same  way. 

On  the  evening  of  the  28th  of  November  (I 
have  the  date  from  Agnes)  I  was  ensconced  in  my 
bushy  retreat,  watching  the  night  take  hold  of 
the  world  of  sand.  Jem  Hodges  stood  on  the 
ridge  to  the  east  of  me.  Every  minute  that 
passed  robbed  his  motionless  figure  of  some  detail 
and  lent  to  it  a  portion  of  the  flat  mystery  of  the 
night.  I  had  seen  the  white  horse  once  that 
evening,  topping  a  rise  far  off  to  the  northward, 
and  then  no  more  till  I  was  suddenly  aware  of  a 
gigantic,  indistinct  form  moving  up-hill  toward 
me  amid  a  vast  shuf-shuf  of  troubled  sand. 

I  was  terribly  frightened  for  the  instant:  then 
72 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

I  knew  it  was  only  a  matter  of  hopping  over  the 
bank  behind  me  and  sliding  down  to  the  very 
back  door  of  the  little  house.  I  had  slipped  from 
the  bushes  and  was  almost  to  the  bottom  of  the 
smothering  slope  when  I  heard  such  a  plunging 
in  the  sand  above  that  my  wits  came  near  leaving 
me  again.  I  made  wild  and  futile  plunges,  and 
cried  out  to  my  sister,  whom  I  saw  in  the  open 
doorway.  I  had  no  thought  in  the  world  but  that 
it  was  the  white  horse  charging  down.  I  had 
almost  gained  the  house,  a  pathetic  small  figure 
of  panic,  when  I  felt  myself  brushed  aside  with  a 
violence  which  left  me  sprawling,  terrified,  on  my 
back  in  the  sand,  with  a  confused  impression  as 
of  something  passing  through  the  doorway 
where  my  sister  had  stood.  It  was  not  beyond  me 
at  that  moment  to  imagine  the  white  horse, 
overcarried  by  the  impetus  of  his  charge,  blunder 
ing  right  on  into  the  kitchen  of  the  little  house. 

Jem  Hodges  had  passed  completely  out  of  my 
mind,  and  it  was  Jem  whom  I  found  in  the 
kitchen,  ill  at  ease,  confronted  by  my  sister. 
Agnes  I  hardly  knew  that  evening — she  was  like  a 
new  and  strange  person,  aflame  with  anger  and  a 
high,  emphatic  beauty,  speaking  tensely,  with 
the  nerve- twanging  upward  slur  at  the  end  of 
the  phrase  which  discovered  the  blood  of  the 
Island  race  through  all  the  veneer  of  public 
school.  The  accumulated  unrest  of  weeks  had 
found  a  vent  at  last. 

"You — you —    Oh,  you  coward!"  she  reviled 
73 


LAND'S  END 

him,  "you  little  sneaking  coward,  you! — an'  they 
call  you  a  man!"  Her  voice  was  a  whispered 
shriek,  her  clenched  hands  moved  before  her  as 
though  to  do  him  harm. 

Jem  was  white  and  still  breathing  hard. 

"A  man,"  Agnes  went  on,  "they  call  you  a 
man — an'  you  knock  over  little  children  so's  you 
can  save  your  own  little  hairy  hide.  You  lose 
your  eyesight — an'  your  mind — from  seein'  a 
horse  walkin'  over  some  sand.  Agh!" 

Then  she  turned  to  me  with  a  fierce  gesture  of 
protection. 

"Zhoe — poor  little  Zhoe — he  hurt  you,  didn't 
he?  There,  don't  cry  no  more.  You're  more  of 
a  man  'n  he  is,  ain't  you,  little  Zhoe?" 

My  face  was  in  the  folds  of  her  skirt  and  I  still 
sobbed  out  the  after-swell  of  the  terror,  but  I 
could  hear  Jem's  voice  speaking.  When  talk 
ing,  he  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  expending  his 
words  with  immense  care. 

"The  horse  wouldn't  harm  Joe,"  he  pro 
nounced. 

That  was  a  signal  for  Agnes  to  fly  at  him  once 
more. 

"No! — won't  harm  him.  You  slip  that  out 
easy  because  Zhoe's  no  folks  of  yourn — an' 
never  will  be,  either.  Agh! — God! — I  could  kill 
you  if  you  weren't  such  a  worm!" 

"He  wouldn't  harm  Joe  nor  nobody." 

The  man's  words  were  unsteady,  but  assured. 

Agnes' s  voice  went  from  her  control  completely. 

74 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

She  came  close  to  him  and  screamed  in  his 
face: 

"Harm  nobody?  Oh!  Oh!  Little  man,  go 
an'  bring  me  that  white  horse!  You  been  makin' 
eyes  at  me.  Oh,  I  seen  'em!  Now  if  you  want 
me — me — go  out  an'  get  the  white  horse  that 
won't  harm  nobody — with  your  two  bare  hands — 
an'  bring  him  to  me." 

For  that  moment  my  sister  was  Out  of  her 
mind. 

Jem  came  over  and  laid  an  absent  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  as  if  he  had  thought  to  comfort  me,  and 
then  had  fallen  into  abstraction  before  the  act 
was  accomplished.  After  a  moment  of  vacant 
quiet  he  looked  up  at  Agnes. 

"An'  you  tell  me  that,  too?"  he  said. 

All  that  evening  I  was  haunted  by  a  picture 
of  the  silent  man,  with  his  hard  red  thumbs 
tucked  in  his  belt,  pursuing  a  shadow  of  horror 
through  the  black  dune  country.  This  distressed 
me  so  much  that  I  finally  crawled  out  from  be 
neath  the  table,  where  I  had  been  lying,  and 
whispered  my  fears  in  my  sister's  ear.  She  had 
been  very  quiet  all  evening,  but  when  she  under 
stood  what  I  was  saying  she  gave  a  little  bitter 
laugh  and  put  her  arm  around  me. 

"Don't  be  a-feared,  Zhoe,"  she  whispered  her 
answer.  "The  little  man  is  tight  behind  his  own 
door  this  night."  Then  she  fell  to  brooding  once 
more. 

When  Jem  came  to  the  little  house  the  following 
75 


LAND'S  END 

day  he  carried  a  piece  of  line  in  one  hand.  He 
sat  down  as  usual  on  the  front  steps.  The  picture 
of  him  that  evening  has  remained  to  me  the  most 
vivid  memory  of  my  young  days — why,  I  cannot 
say.  I  peeped  out  of  the  front  window  and  saw 
him  there,  silhouetted  against  the  blazing  waters 
of  the  bay — the  vast,  silent  and  expressive  shout 
of  the  departing  day  casting  out  at  me  the  un- 
expressive  man. 

Agnes  came  around  a  corner  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  line  in  Jem's  hand.  He  looked  down 
at  it,  too. 

"I  been  thinkin'  it  over,"  he  said. 

"You're  a-scared  to  do  it!"  she  answered. 

For  a  long  time  they  remained  there  without 
moving  or  speaking,  both  looking  down  at  the 
line. 

"  You're  a-scared  to  do  it!"  Agnes  repeated,  at 
length,  and  Jem  got  up  from  the  steps  and  went 
out  through  the  gate  toward  the  dunes.  Never 
have  I  seen  the  whole  world  so  saturated  with 
passive  flame  as  it  seemed  to  me,  peering  from  the 
gloom  of  the  front  room  that  evening. 

At  supper  Agnes  talked  feverishly  of  many 
things,  but  ate  nothing.  All  of  us  noticed  it,  and 
my  mother  remarked  upon  it.  The  silence  out 
side  was  so  complete  that  the  riffle  of  the  coming 
tide  was  audible  in  the  pauses,  and  once  I  heard 
the  note  of  the  stallion  far  away  over  the  sand. 
Then  my  sister  broke  out  into  a  humming  tune — 

the  first  and  last  time  I  ever  knew  her  to  sing  at 

76 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

table.  I  remember  wondering  why  her  eyes, 
which  were  usually  so  steady  and  straight-seeing, 
turned  here  and  there  without  rest,  and  why, 
after  the  meal,  she  wandered  from  window  to 
window,  and  never  stopped  to  look  out  at  any. 

That  was  to  be  a  gala-night  for  me.  My  father 
had  been  raking  up  the  brush  and  leaves  about 
the  place  for  a  week,  heaping  them,  together  with 
bits  of  old  net  and  tarry  shreds  of  canvas,  in  half 
a  dozen  piles  before  the  house,  and  to-night  I  was 
allowed  to  set  them  off.  I  had  them  blazing  soon 
after  supper  was  over,  and  a  fine  monstrous 
spectacle  they  made  for  me,  who  danced  up  and 
down  the  lines  full  of  elemental  exultation,  and 
then  ran  off  to  call  Agnes  to  see  my  handiwork. 

I  could  not  find  her  anywhere  in  the  house. 
I  went  through  all  the  rooms  and  out  and  around 
the  yard.  No  one  knew  where  she  was.  My 
mother  thought  she  had  seen  her  with  a  shawl 
over  her  head,  but  had  taken  no  particular  notice 
at  the  time.  It  didn't  matter,  at  any  rate — Agnes 
often  wandered  out  toward  town  in  the  early 
evening. 

The  rest  of  us  sat  on  the  steps  and  watched  the 
fires,  baby  brother  and  all,  but  they  had  lost 
something  of  their  enchantment  for  me.  I  was 
pursuing  an  idea,  an  obscure  apprehension. 

"I  b'lieve  Aggie's  gone  to  the  dunes,"  I  pro 
claimed,  at  length. 

"Dunes!"    my   mother    cried    out.     "No, — 

you're  foolish,  Zhoe.    Why?" 

77 


LAND'S  END 

Thus  confronted  by  the  direct  question,  I 
found  my  reasonings  too  diaphanous  for  a  logical 
answer. 

"I  dunno,"  I  mumbled,  abashed. 

But  I  had  set  them  worrying.  It  is  a  strange 
fact  that  fisher-folk  are  at  once  the  bravest  and 
the  most  apprehensive  people  I  have  any  knowl 
edge  of.  When  worried  my  mother  was  generally 
restless  with  her  hands,  while  my  father  betrayed 
his  anxiety  by  unwonted  profanity  and  by  aimless 
expeditions  to  inspect  the  dory  mooring  in  the 
creek. 

These  things  they  did  to-night,  my  mother 
on  the  steps,  impassive  save  for  her  writh 
ing  fingers,  my  father  visible  in  peripatetic 
red  glimpses  as  he  wandered,  muttering,  about 
the  yard.  He  called  out  that  he  was  go 
ing  to  step  down  and  take  a  look  at  the 
boat. 

After  that  he  was  gone  a  long  time — half  an 
hour  I  should  say — while  the  flames  died  down 
over  the  fires,  replacing  the  uncertain  flicker  in  the 
yard  with  a  smooth,  pervasive  glow.  When  he  at 
length  reappeared  I  wondered  to  see  sand-burs 
clinging  about  the  edges  of  his  trousers.  The 
nearest  sand-burs  I  knew  of  were  half  a  mile  off 
toward  Snail  Road. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  waited  after  that. 
My  mother  put  the  baby  to  bed,  and  returned 
to  sit  with  restless  hands;  my  father,  muttering 

curses  the  while,  added  bits  of  driftwood  to  the 

78 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

fires,  with  the  instinct  inbred  in  sea-people  of 
keeping  a  beacon  alight. 

Their  coming  was  as  the  coming  of  an  appari 
tion  seen  suddenly  in  the  firelight,  tottering 
forward  on  limbs  too  frail  for  its  inexplicable  and 
uncouth  frame.  Then  my  mother  cried  out,  and 
my  father's  oath  was  a  prayer,  and  it  came  to 
me  that  the  apparition  was  not  one,  but  two 
figures,  one  bearing  the  other. 

Jem  staggered  up  between  the  fires  and  laid 
his  burden  down  with  her  head  in  my  mother's 
lap.  My  sister's  face  was  a  queer  color;  her  eyes 
were  closed.  I  was  bewildered  and  afraid. 

"Scared,"  Jem  panted.  He  collapsed  rather 
than  sat  upon  the  lowest  step  "He  never 
touched  her — just  scared  her — out  of  her  head." 

None  of  us  doubted  for  an  instant  who  "he" 
was.  I  ran  into  the  kitchen  under  my  mother's 
order  for  water.  She  worked  with  a  sort  of 
feverish  calm  over  the  girl  in  her  lap,  while  Jem 
sat,  head  in  hands  and  back  heaving.  After  a 
little  he  got  up  and  regarded  my  sister's  face. 

"She'll  come  round,"  he  said. 

It  may  have  been  a  question.  If  it  was,  the 
answer  was  at  its  heels. 

Agnes' s  eyes  opened  at  the  sound  of  the  words 
— opened  with  a  shadow  of  unutterable  horror 
behind  them.  Her  hands  went  out  to  him  in  an 
agony  of  rigid  appeal.  Jem  knelt  down  with  an 

arm  about  her  shoulders. 

79 


LAND'S  END 

"  You're  all  right/'  he  comforted  her,  still  ex 
pending  his  words,  as  it  were,  with  care. 

"He  came  out  of  the  sand — right  up  out  of 
the  sand  at  me."  There  was  a  certain  queer 
quality  of  raving  in  Agnes 's  whisper.  She  clung 
to  him  with  the  impossible  strength  of  terror. 
"He  came  out  of  the  sand.  His  eyes  were  red — 
oh,  red! — I  could  see  them — and — an'  I  couldn't 
run — couldn't  step — not  step— 

"Yes — yes.  Home  now,  Miss  Aggie,"  Jem's 
red  hand  was  on  her  hair,  soothing,  as  one  might 
a  child. 

"How  did  I  come  here?"  She  put  the  question 
abruptly,  in  her  own  voice  now;  took  her  arms 
from  his  neck  with  a  gesture  of  shame  and  laid 
them  across  my  mother's  shoulders. 

It  was  my  mother  who  answered  her  query. 
"Meester  Hodges  bring  you,  Aggie  girl." 

Agnes' s  eyes  went  to  the  little  man,  but  he  was 
lost  in  abstract  contemplation  of  the  nearest 
fire-bed. 

My  mother  went  on,  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  thank 
Meester  Hodges,  Aggie?" 

Jem  turned  at  that,  lifting  an  imperative  hand. 

"Wait!"  said  he.  "Wait!  You  told  me— to 
bring  the  horse." 

Agnes  cried  out:  "No! — no!    Oh,  please — " 

"You  told  me.    Wait — an'  don't  be  af eared." 

He  leaned  against  a  post  of  the  railing,  his  red 
skin  seeming  to  take  to  itself  all  the  dying  light 
of  the  embers,  and  began  to  whistle,  low  at  first, 

80 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

then  filling  out  clear  and  high  and  throbbing. 
He  whistled  in  a  peculiar  way  which  I  have  never 
observed  in  any  other. 

The  air  was  half  familiar  to  me,  the  one  he 
had  played  with  softly  on  the  dune  behind  the 
house.  But  to  me  and  to  my  people,  bred  to  the 
cloying  accents  of  the  South,  that  clear,  soaring, 
sweet  thread  of  Northern  melody  came  as  strange 
and  alien  and  tingling,  filling  our  own  familiar 
night  with  a  quality  of  expectancy.  Jem  Hodges 
was  a  new  man  before  our  eyes.  For  the  first 
time  in  our  knowledge  of  him  he  was  giving 
utterance  to  himself.  He  swept  through  the 
melody  once  and  twice,  and  paused. 

"He's  far,"  he  said,  and  a  note  of  whickering 
came  to  us  from  the  eastward  dunes.  He  caught 
up  the  air  again,  playing  with  it  wonderful 
things,  sweeping  the  little  huddled  family  of  us 
out  of  our  intimate  house  and  glowing,  familiar 
yard,  into  a  strange,  wind-troubled  country  of  his 
own. 

And  this  time  it  was  the  night,  not  the  sea, 
that  gave  up  the  great  white  stallion,  rising  to 
our  fence  in  majestic  flight,  exploding  from  the 
flat  darkness. 

Jem  cried:  "No! — no!  Don't  be  afeared!" 
for  we  were  making  the  gestures  of  panic. 

The  animal  came  to  him,  picking  a  dainty  way 

about  the  coals  for  all  his  tremendous  weight, 

making  a  wonderfully  fine  picture  with  the  fiery 

sheen  over  his  vast,  deep  chest,  along  the  glis- 

6  81 


LAND'S  END 

tening  flanks  where  the  sweat  stood,  turning  the 
four  white  fetlocks  to  agitated  pinions  of  flame. 
Thus,  I  believe,  the  horses  of  the  gods  came  to  the 
ancients. 

He  stood  over  us  there,  heaving  mountainous, 
filling  half  the  sphere  of  our  sight.  But  his  nose 
was  in  the  bosom  of  Jem  Hodges's  coat,  and  his 
ears  pricked  forward  to  the  breathing  of  Jem 
Hodges's  song  without  words.  The  little  man 
wandered  on  and  on,  picking  a  phrase  from  here 
and  from  there,  wooing,  recounting,  laughing, 
exulting,  weeping,  never  hating.  When  he  sud 
denly  began  to  speak  in  words,  it  was  as  though 
he  had  come  down  a  great  way,  out  of  his  own 
element. 

"It  had  to  be— after  all/7  he  said.  "After  all. 
Now  I  suppose  I've  got  to  take  you  on  to  the 
rich  American  leddy?  She'll  keep  you  fine — in  a 
fine  paddock — you — you  of  the  big  wide  moor 
lands — free  gentleman  of  half  an  English  county. 
Ah,  it's  bad,  Baron  boy — " 

Then  he  was  talking  to  us — to  Agnes. 

"I  been  lyin'  to  myself — tryin'  to  make  myself 
believe  Baron  was  away  off  and  wild.  I  wanted 
to  have  him  free,  like  the  air — long  as  he  could. 
The  rich  leddy  will  pay  five  hundred  pounds. 
Why  do  I  need  it?  We're  comfortable  on  our 
little  place  at  home.  Why?  Because  father  says 
so — an'  a  man  must  do  what  his  father  says — • 
till  he  gets  a  wife  an'  family  of  his  own.  I  thought 
Baron  was  gone  when  the  ship  got  wrecked.  I 

82 


WHITE    HORSE    WINTER 

was  near  glad  of  it.  He's  no  boy  to  pen  up — in  a 
paddock — with  a  ribbon  on,  mebby.  An'  when 
I  knew  he  wasn't  gone — why — I  fair  couldn't 
do  it — put  it  off  an'  off  an'  off.  Ah,  Baron, 
Baron,  they  gave  me  you  when  I  could  pick  you 
up  in  the  meadow;  but  a  man's  got  to  do  what 
his  father  says  till — " 

He  fell  to  musing,  then,  running  his  hand  over 
the  broad  forehead,  combing  out  the  silk  of  the 
forelock,  caressing  a  fine  ear.  Then,  as  if  to 
himself : 

"Till  he  gets  a  wife  of  his  own!" 

He  spoke  to  my  sister. 
'Come  here,  Miss  Aggie." 

Agnes  went  to  him,  and  at  his  command  laid 
her  fingers  on  Baron's  nose.  The  animal  arched 
his  great  neck — oh,  an  indescribable  gesture! — 
and  mouthed  the  back  of  her  hand.  I  thought 
of  Agnes  at  that  moment  as  the  bravest  girl  in 
all  the  world.  Agnes  was  a  stranger  to  me  that 
night. 

After  a  little  time  my  mother  got  up,  saying 
that  I  ought  to  have  been  in  my  bed  long  ago. 
My  father  came  in  with  us,  so  that  we  left  only 
the  white  horse  and  my  sister  and  Jem  Hodges 
standing  in  a  black  group  against  the  glow  of  the 
fires. 


DOWN  ON  THEIR  KNEES 

1  NICKERSON'S  Lane!  Had  the  ghost  of 
that  Old  Harbor  whaler  come  back  to  his 
native  street,  amazement  must  have  moved 
his  phantom  features.  The  little  houses  scram 
bling  up  its  length,  once  so  drab  and  austere, 
seemed  to  have  gone  mad  with  their  pinks  and 
yellows  and  emeralds.  The  babies  under  the 
grape-vines  were  brown  as  shoes,  and  so  were  the 
old  women,  bright-kerchiefed,  gossiping  across 
the  fences  in  a  tongue  he  had  heard,  perhaps, 
when  he  used  to  put  in  at  the  Azores  for  water 
and  green  stuff,  but  never  here.  Manta's, 
Silva's,  CabraPs,  on  the  mail-boxes — and  in  the 
Nickerson  house  at  the  top,  antique  and  white- 
pillared,  lived  now  a  Portuguese  Peter — Peter 
Um  Perna — as  one  would  say,  Peter  One-leg. 
The  ghostly  visitant  might  have  dropped  a  tear 
at  all  this,  or,  a  philosopher,  he  might  have  turned 
his  hollow  eyes  on  Angel  Avellar,  making  lace 
behind  the  pink  palings  of  her  grandmother's 
yard,  and,  murmuring,  "For  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  the  future,"  gone  back  to  his  grave. 

Angel's  grandmother  had  to  walk  with  a  stick, 

$4 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

she  was  so  old;  an  absurd,  dried-up  person  with  a 
topknot  the  size  of  a  thimble,  bad  knees,  arms  like 
broom-handles  and  a  hundred  times  as  tough 
and  never  thoroughly  dry.  At  almost  any  time 
of  the  day,  or  of  the  year,  they  might  have  been 
seen  in  the  yard  or  the  shed,  stabbing  in  and  out 
of  the  washtub,  furious,  uncontrollable,  thrash 
ing  the  suds  about  at  one  end  and  the  thin  old 
woman  at  the  other.  One  wondered  if  she  never 
rebelled  at  them.  Perhaps  she  did.  They  washed 
for  a  good  many  people,  among  them  Peter  Um 
Perna;  and  the  One-leg,  since  he  had  become  so 
rich,  changed  his  shirt  every  other  day  when 
he  was  ashore  from  his  vessel. 

At  any  rate,  other  folks  rebelled ;  it  made  them 
nervous  to  see  her  work  so  long  and  so  hard. 
But  when  they  demanded  across  their  fences 
why  she  would  put  none  of  it  on  that  "lazy  piece 
of  an  Angelina/'  she  made  no  answer  beyond 
tapping  her  nose  reflectively  with  a  dripping 
finger-bone.  Or  perhaps  she  might  be  hanging 
out  one  of  Peter  Um  Perna' s  shirts,  and  pause  to 
stare  at  it  with  an  odd,  preoccupied  attention. 
Or  again,  if  the  vessels  chanced  to  be  coming  in 
that  day,  she  might  hobble  into  the  house  and, 
finding  Angel  reading  on  the  sofa,  pet  her  lustrous 
hair,  mumble  and  smile,  and  say,  "Y'r  lace, 
Pretty,  out  'n  the  garden,"  or  perhaps,  "The 
flowe's  needs  pickin',  Pretty." 

Peter  Um  Perna  made  his  men  carry  him 

ashore  on  their  shoulders  when  his  vessel  came 

85 


LAND'S  END 

back  from  the  fishing-grounds.  Had  a  drop  of 
water  touched  his  single  russet  shoe  there  is  no 
saying  what  would  have  happened.  They  hated 
him  as  no  other  skipper  was  hated ;  yet  he  was  a 
lucky  man  to  go  with,  a  "dog"  for  knowing  the 
fish,  and  it  was  a  sight  to  see  them  coming  up 
Nickerson's  Lane  after  a  "big  trip,"  in  their 
boots  and  hard,  round  rubber  hats,  loitering  and 
shuffling  so  as  to  let  him  keep  his  wooden- 
legged  lead  of  them,  and  bellowing  across  the 
yards  of  how  many  fish  they  had  taken  and  how 
many  dollars  they  had  shared. 

Um  Perna  said  nothing;  there  was  no  need. 
He -stumped  along  in  front  with  his  hat  pulled 
down  to  hide  the  scar  on  his  forehead,  one  thumb 
tucked  over  the  gold  watch-chain,  the  other 
preening  his  black  mustache.  One  would  think 
he  had  forgotten  there  were  other  people  in  the 
world,  for  he  turned  his  eyes  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  not  even  when  he  passed  the 
pink-fenced  yard  where  Angel  Avellar  always 
chanced  to  be,  picking  flowers,  perhaps,  or 
reaching  up  her  brown,  well-rounded  arms  to 
tuck  a  vine-tendril  in  place,  or  perhaps  sitting 
with  her  head  bent  over  her  lace-hooks,  the  hair 
hiding  her  face  except  for  an  edge  of  cheek, 
deep-colored  under  the  eyes  of  Um  Perna's  men — 
especially  of  Man'el  Costa.  For  saying  his  name 
over  to  herself,  or  even  thinking  of  Man'el,  made 
Angel's  cheeks  hot  this  autumn  of  her  seventeenth 
year. 

86 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

Folks  laughed  at  Angel  for  sitting  out  of  doors 
when  the  flowers  were  all  gone  and  the  grass-plot 
dried  up.  But  it  was  on  one  of  these  afternoons, 
with  the  sun  as  low  as  a  man's  head  and  a  cold 
wind  spattering  sand  among  the  roofs,  that  Man'el 
Costa  leaned  his  ditty-bag  on  the  palings  and 
asked  Angel  to  go  to  the  St.  Michels7  dance  with 
him. 

"What  y'  say?"  he  urged.  His  soft,  dark 
cheeks  grew  darker  still  at  the  snickers  of  his 
mates  behind  him. 

Angel  wanted  to  laugh  and  to  weep  at  the 
same  time.  She  could  not  have  lifted  her  eyes 
if  a  hundred  red-hot  needles  had  pricked  her. 
Man'el  Costa!  Man'el  Costa!  If  she  could 
only  so  much  as  nod  her  head?  Her  heart 
jumped  up  and  choked  her;  Man'el  was  turning 
away,  not  understanding.  She  must,  somehow, 
get  to  her  feet. 

"M-m-man'el!"  she  stammered,  her  face 
stricken  with  fire. 

It  was  not  Man'el  there  facing  her,  but  Peter 
Um  Perna  himself,  who  had  waved  Man'el  away. 
He  looked  her  over  at  his  leisure. 

"  What's  y'r  name?"  he  inquired,  with  a  faint 
sneer.  When  he  saw  the  girl  trembling  and  quite 
unable  to  answer,  the  sneer  broadened. 

"I  guess  that's  one  o'  my  good  shirts  dryin' 
on  the  line  there.  Better  bring  it  to  my  house 
after  supper,  whatever  y'r  name  is,  because  I'll 

want  to  wear  it  to-morrow." 

87 


LAND'S  END 

Angel  got  into  the  house  somehow.  At  first, 
on  the  front-room  sofa,  even  the  tears  refused  to 
come,  she  was  so  bruised  and  robbed.  Man'el 
had  not  understood,  and  he  would  never  ask  her 
again,  and  there  were  so  many  girls.  By  and  by 
the  world  grew  warmer  and  blacker,  and  she 
could  sob  till  she  was  worn  out  to  her  finger-tips, 
and  Avo  Avellar's  hand  on  hers  in  the  gloom  was 
something  holding  her  up  from  the  deep.  The 
Avo  began  to  croon  after  a  time,  a  curious 
mumbling  overtone  of  exultation. 

"I  hear  'im,  Pretty.  I  was  behind  the  curtain. 
Y'  don't  know  men  yit,  or  y'  wouldn't  take  on  so. 
'Ain't  he  spoke  to  y'u,  Pretty?  He  claims  t'  hate 
women,  an'  yit  he's  spoke  t'  my  Pretty.  Dry 
y'r  tears,  dearie.  Didn't  y'  hear  he  wanted  y' 
should  bring  the  wash  t'-night?  This  Peter  wants 
t'  see  my  Pretty  again,  does  he?  Hee-hee-hee- 
hee!" 

It  was  so  hard  for  tired  Angel  to  understand. 
What  was  the  Avo  talking  about?  Turning  over, 
she  stared  at  the  shadowy  ceiling,  her  eyes  grow 
ing  wider  and  wider,  and  her  wrists  cold,  as  if  in 
an  ice-pack. 

"Who  you  mean?"  she  whispered.  "Not — 
not  the  One-leg,  Avo !" 

"Yis,  the  One-leg,  Pretty.  The  One-leg  that 
lives  in  the  big  house  up  there  and  pays  four 
dollars  f'r  a  shirt,  they  tell,  up  to  Boston.  If 
more  men  was  to  git  a  leg  catched  into  a  jibhV 
boom — what  a  world — what  a  world!  Mebby 

88 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

they'd  all  git  mad  then,  an'  proud,  an'  mebby 
own  their  three  good  vessels  same  's  Peter.  A 
touch  o'  gold  that  was,  Pretty.  He's  the  same 's 
the  rest  of  'em  afore  that — remember?  And 
to-day — to-day,  he's  spoke  to  Angel  Avellar. 
Come,  lay  out  y'r  Sunday  frock  while  I  git  the 
supper  ready.  Hee-hee— 

She  hobbled  off,  bubbling  over  her  stick,  to 
rattle  her  supper  pots  in  the  kitchen.  The 
illumination  from  the  doorway  lay  across  the 
carpet;  Angel,  turning  on  her  side,  watched  the 
shadow  crossing  and  re-crossing  the  bright  patch, 
huge  and  misshapen  and  curiously  agile. 

"Was  that  the  reason  why  she  always  sent 
me  out  into  the  yard  then?"  It  was  an  astound 
ing  question,  heavy  and  bitter  and  dark,  made 
up,  as  it  were,  of  all  the  questions  of  all  the  young 
girls  standing  on  the  thresholds  of  all  the  ages. 
It  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  go  out  into  the 
light,  but  she  had  to  when  the  Avo  called. 

"I  don't  want  t' — t'  take  the  wash,"  she 
pleaded,  bending  her  head  lower  over  the  cod- 
cheek  chowder.  Abashed  by  the  unexpected 
silence,  she  hazarded  a  peep  through  her  lashes. 
The  old  woman  began  to  laugh  with  a  shrill, 
angry  sarcasm,  throwing  one  skinny  arm  over 
her  head  like  a  dancing-girl. 

"Oh  yis,  yis!  /  go!  That's  what  y'  want? 
I'm  so  strong  an'  straight  an'  pretty.  I  heave  my 
stick  in  the  pig-yard  an'  skip  like  Tony  Button's 

goat — an'   who  knows  if  Peter  One-leg  won't 

89 


LAND'S  END 

ast  me  for  his  wife.  Ahhh!  Hee-hee-hee!" 
She  dropped  her  irony  in  a  wink  for  a  kind  of 
wrinkled  tenderness.  "Ah,  my  Pretty — I  frgit 
my  Pretty's  a  little  girl  yit.  But  you  won't  be 
nervous  now,  will  you?  I  was  same  Js  that  when 
I  was  young,  too;  I  shivered  and  cried  when  I 
was  lucky — same 's  you,  Pretty.  It  '11  be  all 
right.  You  go  'long.  Go  'long!  Here,  le'me 
fix  y'r  hair  a  second.  Y'r  dress  is  pretty.  Pretty 
dress!" 

When  Angel  went  up  the  lane,  carrying  the 
bundle  on  her  head,  all  the  little  houses  with 
their  bright  eyes  crowded  close  to  watch  her 
pass,  and  the  moon  sent  a  ramping,  shameless 
shadow  ahead  to  drag  her  slow  feet  along.  The 
austere  autumnal  wind  shamed  her,  making 
nothing  of  her  Sunday  frock  and  stinging  her 
with  its  blast  till  she  would  have  turned  and  run 
down  again  had  it  not  been  for  a  wisp  of  arm 
waving  her  on  from  the  familiar  shadows  below. 

Peter's  sister  Philomena  opened  the  back  door 
slightly,  almost  before  Angel  could  knock. 
Philomena  was  a  narrow-chested,  niggardly, 
black-clothed  creature,  standing  forever  on  the 
brink  of  disaster.  Her  brother's  affluence,  his 
three  vessels,  even  this  house,  remained  incredible 
to  her,  a  golden  spell  to  be  shattered  by  a  breath 
of  skepticism.  She  never  spent  money  without  a 
haunting  fear  lest  the  shopman  chance  to  bite 
the  coin  and  find  it  dust.  She  gave  Angel  no 

time  to  speak. 

90 


DOWN    ON   THEIR    KNEES 

"/  know  what  y'r  after/'  she  challenged, 
squeezing  her  tall,  chalky  face  in  the  crack. 
"Na-na — we  don't  want  you  snoopin'  round  here. 
Go  'way!"  But  when  Angel,  unspeakably  re 
lieved,  turned  to  go,  the  woman  was  out,  plucking 
at  her  elbow  with  frightened  fingers.  "  Na-na — • 
come  in !  I  s'pose  you  got  to  come  in.  Oh,  dear 
me — my  brother  Peter — " 

Peter  Um  Perna  sat  in  front  of  a  base-burner 
in  the  living-room,  his  wooden  peg  side  by  side 
with  his  russet  shoe,  and  both  of  a  color  in  the 
glow  from  the  door,  his  hands  folded  across  his 
white  waistcoat,  and  his  head  sunken  forward 
in  a  pose  of  meditation  or  perhaps  fatigue. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  murmured,  hearing  Angel  be 
hind  him.  He  kept  her  standing  in  a  torment  of 
uncertainty,  neither  offering  to  rise  himself  nor 
asking  her  to  sit.  "What's  y'r  name?"  This  was 
one  of  his  finest  thrusts,  to  seem  not  to  know 
one's  name. 

"Angeline,"  the  girl  stammered,  keeping  her 
eyes  on  a  dim  Virgin  and  dimmer  Child  between 
the  long  windows,  blue  with  the  moon,  so  she 
would  not  have  to  look  at  him.  "Angel — Angel 
Avellar,  s-s-sir!" 

"Angel,  eh?"  The  scar  on  his  forehead 
gathered  up  all  the  light  and  burned  like  a 
crooked  beacon.  "Not  a  bad  name,"  he  mused. 
"You  must  've  just  come  t'  Old  Harbor;  I  never 
seen  you  before  t'-day." 

His  face  did  not  change  at  this  quite  wanton 

91 


LAND'S  END 

lie,  but  the  girl's  did  in  a  curious  way.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  there  is  as  true  a  travail  when  the  child 
gives  birth  to  the  woman  as  is  the  woman's 
giving  birth  to  the  child.  Hitching  his  bad  leg 
over  the  good,  the  man  became  engrossed  in  its 
shining  metal  tip. 

"You'll  hear  folks  talkin'  about  me  before  you 
been  here  long,  Angel.  That's  the  name,  ain't 
it?  All  of  'em  talks  about  me  because  I'm  so  good 
to  'em  an'  because  I'm  so  handsome.  It's  my 
gold  foot  catches  their  eye.  Look!  Won't  see 
another  foot  in  Old  Harbor  shines  like  that  in  the 
light.  Brass,  eh?  Might  's  well  be  gold.  Then 
they  like  the  rose-mark  on  my  forehead.  The 
saints  've  got  haloes,  remember." 

Half  turning  of  a  sudden,  he  clapped  his  hands 
together,  crying:  "Come,  come!  Stand  over 
here  where  I  can  take  a  look  at  you.  Mmm. 
That's  better."  He  stared  her  over  slowly  from 
head  to  foot,  one  hand  busy  preening  his  mus 
tache,  the  other  slapping  nervously  on  the  chair- 
arm.  "I'm  thinkin'  o'  gittin'  married  one  o' 
these  days."  He  paused  to  watch  the  color 
sweeping  the  girl's  face.  There  was  a  light  in  his 
eyes  of  an  inexplicable  glee.  "Yes,  I'm  goin'  t' 
git  a  woman  when  I  can  find  the  kind  I  want,  or 
I  won't  have  'er.  Her  hair  won't  be  black,  either, 
but  the  color  o'  gold,  and  curly,  and  her  eyes  the 
color  o'  sky.  She'll  be  lighter  color  all  told  'n  you 
are,  an'  not  near  so  lean — and  rich!  She'll  keep 
a  girl  t'  do  up  her  hair,  and  a  man  jus'  to  black 

92 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

her  shoes.  An'  she'll  come  crawlin'  on  her  knees 
for  me  t'  marry  'er,  this  woman." 

Angel  could  not  understand.  She  had  no  way 
of  defending  herself  against  this  singular  and 
meaningless  brutality.  The  man  seemed  amused 
at  her  horror  and  her  pathetic,  inarticulate 
passion.  He  carried  on  in  a  shrill  mood. 

"You  oughtn't  to  have  no  trouble  getthV  a 
man,  now.  You're  good  enough  aplenty  for 
some  poor  devil,  like  a  young  fellow  in  my  vessel 
now;  I  forget  his  name — Man'el  somethin'.  Now 
why  don't  y'  go  to  work  an'  get  out  'n  the  yard 
when  the  vessels  comes  in?  Mebby  this  boy 
might  happen  t'  see  you  an'  take  a  fancy.  Who 
knows?  He  may  like  'em  lean  an'  black,  an'  he 
poor,  too.  .  .  .  That's  all!  You  c'n  go  now!" 
He  shook  his  hands  at  her  with  an  unaccountable 
ferocity.  "D'y'  hear?  You  c'n  go!  Mena! 
Mena!  Where  'n  the  devil —  Why  don't  y'  let 
this  girl  out?" 

Man'el  Costa  was  waiting  outside  Peter  Um 
Perna's  gate,  rather  heroic  in  the  moonlight, 
leaning  against  a  tree-bole  and  wondering  how  he 
should  hail  Angel  Avellar,  for  he  had  seen  her 
going  in  with  the  wash.  Man'el  was  not  used  to 
girls  quite  so  timid  as  Angel;  he  found  it  rather 
exciting,  and  the  feeling  deepened  the  natural  fire 
of  his  eyes  and  whipped  his  fine  dark  cheeks  with 
red. 

"Oh,  hello  there!"  he  called,  suddenly,  catching 
sight  of  a  figure  at  the  gate.  "  What's  the  hurry, 


LAND'S  END 

Angel?  What's — what's  eatin'  you?"  he  finished, 
bewildered  to  find  his  hands  imprisoned  and 
Angel's  eyes  shining  close  with  a  light  he  could 
not  fathom. 

"Was  you  waitin'  for  me,  Man'el?" 

"Yeh!"    He  had  planned  to  lie  about  that. 

"Come,  let's  go.    Quick,  Man'el,  let's  go!" 

She  tugged  at  his  hand,  and  he  followed  a  few 
steps  down  the  hill,  peering  sidewise.  It  was 
like  a  dream,  with  the  weird  illumination  and  the 
wind  and  the  naked  vine-stems  shivering  among 
the  yards.  And  this  was  Angel  Avellar!  He  felt 
foolish,  never  to  have  seen  through  her  before, 
and  at  the  same  time  filled  with  a  wild  chill  of 
discovery. 

"Look  here!"  he  cried,  suddenly,  tugging  her 
to  stop.  "What  you  laughin'  for?"  And  then, 
still  more  uncertain,  "What — what  you  cryin' 
for,  or  are  you  laughin',  anyway?" 

The  girl's  hands,  pressed  against  her  bosom, 
rose  and  fell  as  though  she  had  been  running. 

"Will  you  kill  that  one-leg  pig,  Man'el?" 

"Sure!"  He  concluded  that  she  was  laughing, 
after  all. 

"Nw>t» 

Man'el's  jaw  gave  way.  It  was  more  than 
ever  like  a  dream;  he  began  to  wish  he  could  wake 
up  so  as  to  be  certain  of  it,  and  then  go  on  dream 
ing  again.  The  night  below  gave  up  a  shape  wav 
ing  ecstatic  arms  and  screeching:  "Go  'way  f'm 
here.  Git  away  f'm  my  girl!  Go 'way — go  home!" 

94 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

They  paid  her  no  more  attention  than  they 
would  have  paid  an  unseasonable  insect  bumbling 
in  the  night  or  the  faint  surf  on  the  beaches. 

"  Now?  Will  you  now?"  Angel's  eyes  held 
him  inexorably. 

"W-e-1-1 — ugh!  Say,  look  here,  what's  eatin' 
you  t'-night?  What's  he  done  to  you?  Say, 
can't  y'  talk  sensible?" 

Angel's  fingers  plucked  at  his  coat  lapels. 

"  Listen !  Did  I  ever  ask  him  to  talk  about  me? 
Did  I?  Did  I  ask  him  to  say  if  I  was  pretty  or 
ugly?  An'  if  he  likes  yellow  hair,  what's  that  to 
me?  Oh!  oh!  If  I  was  rich  and  had  yellow  hair, 
than  I  c'd  come  crawlin'  on  my  knees  to  'im, 
could  I?  Oh!  As  if  anybody  'd  look  at  that 
cripple  pig!  Did  I  ask  'im  if  I  was  ugly?  Oh! 
Oh!  Oh!" 

Man' el  threw  back  his  head  to  laugh  at  the 
stars,  relieved. 

"So  you're  ugly,  eh?  Ugly?"  He  put  some 
thing  out  of  the  way  with  his  strong  arm,  crying : 
"Leave  us  be,  old  woman.  Can't  y'  see  we're 
talkin'?  .  .  .  Ugly,  eh?  Well,  I'm  on'y  a  poor 
fellow,  but  if  you're  ugly,  then  I  want  a  ugly  one. 
You're  good  enough  for  me — plenty  good  enough 
for  me!  Well,  I  should  guess!" 

"Don't  say  it  that  way!"  she  protested, 
fiercely.  "Not  that  way!" 

"Any  way  y'  like,  then!"  Man'el  laughed 
triumphantly,  taking  her  hands  in  his  and 
swinging  them  back  and  forth. 

95 


LAND'S  END 

Angel  could  not  sleep  that  night.  She  lay 
wide-eyed  awake  and  sometimes  shivering  in  her 
bed  under  the  windy  shingles,  wondering  at  the 
strange  new  face  of  the  world.  Her  grandmother 
did  not  even  go  to  bed,  but  sat  in  the  kitchen, 
rocking  very  slowly  back  and  forth,  peering  into 
the  coals  and  sucking  her  gums.  A  little  before 
dawn  she  killed  and  dressed  a  pair  of  pullets  and 
carried  them  away  with  her  down  the  lane, 
wrapped  in  an  old  shawl.  She  was  back  before 
Angel  was  up. 

"Look  't  this  bottle,  Pretty,"  she  said.  "I 
got  it  to  the  drug-store,  an'  folks  says  it  '11  make 
y'r  hair  yellah.  See.  Avo  got  it  for  Pretty." 

Sitting  bolt  up  in  bed,  Angel  stared  at  the 
bottle  for  a  long  time  after  the  Avo  had  hobbled 
down-stairs  again. 

"Oh  yes.    I  remember  now." 

Her  anger  with  the  Avo  grew  beyond  bounds. 
She  ran  around  the  room  in  her  bare  feet,  hunt 
ing  for  a  place  to  break  the  bottle.  In  the  end 
she  let  it  drop  down  between  the  floor  and  the 
eaves,  and  then  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  staring 
at  nothing. 

Even  the  oldest  crones  in  the  neighborhood 
could  see  the  difference  in  Angel  after  that,  and 
wagged  their  heads  and  pursed  their  lips,  for, 
though  their  eyes  were  dim,  their  wits  were  sharp 
for  a  thing  of  this  kind. 

What  they  saw  in  Angel  was  something  hard, 

glittering,  something  purposeful.    For  a  year  she 

96 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

had  been  putting  away  nickels  and  pennies 
against  the  St.  Michels'  excursion  to  New  Bed 
ford  in  the  spring,  and  now  everybody  knew, 
from  Evelina  Silva,  who  worked  in  Matheson's 
store,  how  she  had  spent  it  all  in  one  morning  for 
a  piece  of  yellow  silk  and  a  pair  of  patent-leather 
pumps  with  French  heels.  She  brushed  her  teeth, 
too,  and  the  grocer-boy  who  caught  her  in  the 
kitchen  one  morning  rubbing  her  cheeks  hard 
with  a  rough  towel  did  not  fail  to  tell  of  it. 

She  couldn't  fool  the  old  women.  Perhaps 
they  were  a  little  disappointed  when  she  did  not 
try.  Any  one  with  eyes  was  free  to  see  her,  when 
Peter  Um  Perna  came  up  the  lane,  standing  slim 
and  brazen  in  the  doorway,  "showing  off"  the 
waist  she  had  made  from  the  yellow  silk,  and 
those  patent-leather  pumps  with  the  French 
heels.  A  spot  of  color  like  a  rose-petal  burned  in 
either  cheek,  and  the  lights  in  the  hair  framing 
the  lovely  oval  of  her  face  were  like  blue  sabers 
in  a  mist.  She  stared  at  Peter  as  he  passed, 
looked  him  over  with  the  bland  incuriosity  of  a 
stranger  till  her  eyes  came  to  that  brass-shod  peg, 
when  she  smiled  a  little  to  herself.  One  could  see 
the  cords  in  Peter's  cheeks  tighten  and  stand  out, 
that  was  all.  He  went  on  fingering  his  mustache 
and  toying  with  the  watch-chain  as  if  he  did  not 
know  she  was  there.  How  they  hated  each 
other,  Angel  Avellar  and  Peter  Um  Perna! 

Man'el  Costa  wanted  to  laugh.  He  was  de 
lighted  with  Angel,  and  more  and  more  with 
7  97 


LAND'S  END 

every  passing  week  he  wondered  that  he  could 
have  looked  at  any  other  girl.  And  yet,  from 
time  to  time,  a  ripple  of  uneasiness  passed  across 
his  simple  soul.  He  spoke  of  it  one  evening  in  the 
Avo's  front  room,  where  he  came  to  see  Angel 
quite  often  now  and  sit  on  the  sofa  with  his  arm 
around  her,  oblivious  to  the  old  woman's  vindic 
tive  screechings  from  the  kitchen. 

"  You — you're  sure  y'  like  me,  Angel?  Y'  ain't 
beginnin'  t' — to — " 

There  was  no  need  to  finish  the  question;  the 
answer  was  in  the  dark,  reproachful  eyes  which 
seemed  to  be  looking  through  him  and  beyond. 
She  spoke  after  a  moment  in  a  musing  tone. 

"He  told  me  I  was  ugly.  Did  I  ask  him? 
Did  I  ask  him?  Say!"  She  jumped  up  to 
straighten  a  corner  of  the  carpet  with  a  toe.  "I 
tell  you,"  she  cried,  wheeling  on  Man'el.  "You 
want  t'  know  what  I  wisht?  I  wisht  that — that 
thing  there — would  come  crawlin'  on  his  knees — 
to  me — me,  Man'el.  Just  once,  Man'el!" 

Man'el  stared  at  his  finger-nails  and  laughed 
uncertainly.  "I'd  like  t'  see  you  then,  Angel, 
old  girl." 

The  Avo,  hobbling  in,  held  up  her  two  shaking 
hands.  "Look  at  'em,"  she  quavered.  "All  et 
up  with  the  wash.  An'  who  did  I  wash  f'r — t' 
keep  her  soul  'n'  body  togither?  Eh?  What 
does  she  care?  Eeee!  Eeee!  She'd  be  glad  if  I 
was  dead  'n'  gone!  Wisht  I  was!  I  wisht  I 


was." 


98 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

Angel  was  not  the  only  one  changed  by  that 
early  winter.  People  said  that  Peter  Um  Perna 
was  going  crazy  with  his  money.  "  'S  if  he  didn't 
have  enough  a'ready,"  they  said.  "Don'  use 
his  head  no  more  at  all,  at  all." 

It  was  quite  true,  he  didn't  use  his  head.  For 
after  the  weathers  came  on  and  other,  skippers 
hauled  up  or  lay  snug  in  their  houses  on  the 
watch  for  fine  days,  Peter  went  out  in  everything. 
An  abiding  anger  dwelt  in  him.  Driving  his 
dories  overboard  in  a  northeaster,  he  lost  all  his 
gear;  and  his  crew,  coming  home  empty-handed 
for  their  pains,  refused  to  go  again,  even  when  he 
came  stamping  through  the  lanes  calling  them 
out,  but  had  their  women-folks  pull  down  the 
front  shades  and  sat  in  their  kitchens,  grin 
ning  and  ill  at  ease.  On  his  way  home  that  day 
Man'el  Costa  had  stopped  in  at  the  Avo's  back 
shed  with  his  bunk-tick  over  his  shoulder. 

1 '  Ugh-ugh, ' '  he  sniggered.  ' '  Home  V  mother's 
good  enough  f'r  me." 

He  had  not  counted  on  Angel,  who  met  his 
announcement  with  blazing  eyes. 

"You'd  let  him  scare  y'  out,  would  you? 
You  would,  would  you?" 

Peter  Um  Perna  grinned  in  an  odd  way  when 
Man'el  came  after  that  to  say  he  would  go.  They 
went  out  the  day  before  Christmas  with  four  Lis 
bon  "ginnies"  harried  out  of  a  back-street  board 
ing-house,  not  in  the  big  schooner,  of  course,  but 
in  Peter's  second  craft,  the  M ena,  which  his  uncle 

99 


LAND'S  END 

went  dragging  in  through  the  summer.  Angel 
went  down  to  watch  them  go  off  from  the  beach 
in  their  dory.  They  looked  tiny  and  shaky 
against  the  sky  and  water,  both  of  a  pitiless  gray. 

It  began  to  snow  about  midnight — a  soft, 
windless  downfall,  blinding  at  a  dozen  yards. 
The  telephone-girl  at  the  drug-store  had  the 
news  before  nine  in  the  morning — the  Mena  on 
the  bar  at  Plymouth,  and  breaking  up  fast  with 
the  flood  tide.  Yes,  they  had  gotten  the  men 
ashore. 

Word  of  shipwreck  had  run  white-lipped 
through  Old  Harbor  times  out  of  mind  in  the 
past.  But  this  Christmas  day  there  were  no 
white  lips  or  eyes  aching  for  tears,  unless  they 
were  up  there  at  the  top  of  Nickerson's  Lane, 
where  sister  Philomena  stood  behind  the  long 
windows  and  watched  the  people  clear  away 
their  snow,  limping  grotesquely,  putting  fingers 
to  noses  and  hallooing  down  the  dazzling  passage. 
Philomena  knew  what  it  meant.  Fate  could  not 
fool  Philomena.  Had  she  not  been  waiting  for 
this?  Had  she  not  been  fondling  the  darling  fear 
of  this  disaster  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart?  The 
golden  spell  was  beginning  to  fade. 

Angel  Avellar  sat  in  the  front  room  at  her  house, 
chin  in  hand,  brooding  over  the  unseasonable 
flowers  in  the  carpet. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  repeated  over  and  over. 
"Glad!  Glad!  Glad!" 

That    night    the    festival    of    Menin'    Jesus 
100 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

brightened  all  the  windows  along  the  lane,  making 
a  joyful,  steep  corridor,  walled  in,  for  once,  from 
the  hungry  ocean  and  the  ruthless  sky.  There 
was  music,  too,  of  mandolins  and  island  lutes, 
and  men  chanting  the  "Parcido  im  Belam!" 

Avo  Avellar  had  been  hard  at  her  housework 
all  day,  dusting  and  scrubbing,  making  her  tiny 
altar  of  boards,  getting  out  the  new  wheat  care 
fully  sprouted  in  saucers,  and  the  candles,  the 
bizarre  little  Virgin  and  Child,  saints  and  cows 
and  asses,  brought  with  her  from  the  islands. 
The  wine  also,  in  the  huge  black  bottle,  was 
island  wine. 

Not  many  came  to  the  Avo's — a  few  old 
gossips  to  mumble  over  the  cake  and  wine,  and 
three  or  four  young  fellows,  shy  of  Angel  at  first 
till  they  found  how  the  wind  of  her  humor  blew, 
when  they  all  made  fun  of  the  One-leg  louder  and 
louder  as  the  candle-fires  danced  in  the  girl's 
eyes,  strummed  their  mandolins,  and  drank  of 
the  old  woman's  wine. 

They  fell  silent  of  a  sudden  and  wished  they 
were  somewhere  else  when  Peter  Um  Perna  stood 
in  the  doorway. 

"Bom  noite!"  he  said  to  the  company. 

Convoyed  by  the  ecstatic  Avo,  he  entered  and 
took  a  chair  before  the  altar.  He  remained  as 
the  life-crew  had  taken  him  from  his  doomed 
vessel,  one  sleeve  split,  his  collar  gone,  and  his 
shirt  laid  open  at  the  throat.  They  were  as 
tounded  to  see  him  so  mild,  as  though  his  losing 

101 


LAND'S  END 

battle  with  the  sea  had  somehow  rested  him. 
For  a  long  time  he  sat  staring  into  the  candle- 
ranks.  Once  he  murmured,  "Good  cake,  Avo," 
and  again,  "Good  wine,  old  woman!"  He  drank 
the  wine  eagerly,  but  seemed  to  forget  the  cake. 
Once  he  started  and  looked  about.  "Where  all 
the  folks  went  to?"  he  wondered,  vaguely. 

The  Avo  got  rid  of  the  question  with  a  wave  of 
her  skinny  hands,  and  filled  his  glass  again.  One 
could  not  help  wondering  at  the  frail  old  woman 
all  through  that  night.  Now  she  was  at  Peter 
Um  Perna's  elbow,  a  pervading  minister;  now 
she  was  in  the  kitchen,  where  the  company  had 
crowded  to  wait  and  watch  and  whisper,  crossing 
her  lips  with  a  savage  finger,  grinning  and  chuck 
ling  through  her  gums,  or  shaking  her  fists  at 
Angel,  who  remained  in  the  front  room,  sitting 
in  an  angle  between  the  altar  and  one  of  the 
front  windows. 

There  was  something  luxurious  about  Angel's 
attitude,  leaning  back  at  her  ease,  and  something 
at  the  same  time  triumphant.  One  could  think 
of  her  as  having  saved  up  precious  moments 
against  this  night,  moments  of  deep  scorn  or 
anger,  and  moments  of  especial  beauty.  Now 
and  then  her  lips  curled  slightly  with  her  con 
tempt,  but  beyond  this  her  face  remained  per 
fectly  impassive,  even  when  Peter  Um  Perna 
looked  up  at  her  once  and  down  again  quickly 
with  a  curious  flush  on  his  cheeks. 

By  and  by,  lulled  by  the  wine  and  the  candle- 
102 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

light,  he  seemed  to  forget  where  he  was.  His 
face  grew  oddly  boyish,  soft,  and  untired — he  was 
remembering  the  red  tiles  and  the  rank,  sweet 
gardens  of  Fayal. 

Avo  crooned  a  strange  paean  over  the  kitchen 
fire!  " Drunk  in  my  house!  Drunk  in  my 
house !"  Some  of  the  old  women  dozed;  she 
hustled  them  awake.  Others  wanted  to  go  home, 
it  was  so  unearthly  an  hour,  but  she  held  them 
with  incredible  stratagems,  even  standing  with 
her  feeble  back  against  the  door.  The  cup  was 
not  to  be  snatched  from  her  lips  now. 

Peter  was  looking  at  Angel  as  though  he  had 
never  seen  her  before.  "You're  pretty,"  he 
mused.  "My,  my,  but  you're  pretty." 

She  started  ever  so  little  in  her  chair,  then  lay 
back  and  covered  a  yawn.  "Think  so?"  she 
murmured,  gazing  at  the  ceiling. 

His  face  twitched  and  colored,  as  if  for  an 
instant  he  tried  to  pull  himself  together.  He  let 
himself  go  on  again  with  a  waving  hand. 

"I  wished  you  liked  me  a — a  little  bit.  If 
you — if  you — " 

"Who,  me?  Liked  you?"  The  candle-light 
showed  Angel's  smooth,  round  neck  trembling 
with  pent  laughter.  It  seemed  incredible  that 
this  was  the  Angel  Avellar  of  half  a  year  ago. 
"Me  like  you — you?" 

"Yeah-yeah!"  He  strained  toward  her.  "God, 
if  you  c'd  on'y  like  me  enough  t'  get  married  with 
me!  Couldn't  you  now — couldn't  you?" 

103 


LAND'S  END 

"Why  don't  y'  get  down  onto  your  knees, 
then?" 

"Yeah-yeah — wait  a  secon'.    Yeah-yeah!" 

He  had  forgotten  that  wooden  peg  of  his;  it 
caught  between  the  chair-rungs  and  flung  him 
down  on  one  shoulder  at  Angel's  feet. 

The  devils  were  loose  in  Angel  Avellar.  Lean 
ing  over  the  prostrate  man,  she  seemed  to  drink 
of  the  gray,  twitching  horror  on  his  face. 

"What  'd  I  say?"  he  whispered,  not  yet 
moving. 

"You  crawled  on  your  knees  for  me  t'  marry 
you,  Peter  Um  Perna!" 

She  gazed  into  his  eyes  with  a  smile  of  sweet 
poison.  But  it  was  not  enough;  she  was  still 
thirsty.  She  had  meant  to  spurn  him  now  with  a 
laugh,  but  the  cornered  look  in  his  eyes  gave  her  a 
far  finer  thrust.  "And  I  will  marry  you,  Peter 
One-leg.  You  hear?  I  will!  Twill!" 

He  scrambled  up  with  his  back  to  the  wall. 
He  seemed  dazed  to  find  curious,  exultant  faces 
packing  the  kitchen  door,  the  Avo's  witnesses. 

"I  never!"  he  mumbled  his  denial.  "I  never, 
either!" 

Angel  turned  and  blew  out  the  candles  on  the 
altar,  showing  the  room  cold  with  dawn.  She 
shivered  a  little  with  her  triumph.  "Oh,  well!" 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "If  you  don't — " 
She  was  making  sport  of  him,  Peter,  before  these 
people.  Him!  Peter  Duarte!  Devils  were  loose 
somewhere  else  now. 

104 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

"All  right!"  he  bawled.  "Come  on  V  the 
priest,  damn  you,  right  now!" 

They  studied  each  other's  eyes.  The  girl's 
lips  scarcely  moved. 

"You— you  think  I  wouldn't?" 

"You  think  /  wouldn't?"  Peter  whispered,  too. 
Then  they  both  repeated  it,  wondering,  almost 
appealing. 

1 1  You— think— I— wouldn't?" 

"  You— think— /—wouldn't?" 

Old  Harbor  will  forget  many  things  before  it 
forgets  that  morning  of  passion.  Angela  Avellar 
and  Peter  Um  Perna  were  married  in  the  yellow 
chapel  up-street  as  soon  as  things  could  be  gotten 
ready,  still  scarcely  knowing  that  they  did, 
driven  helpless  on  an  obscure  tempest,  becoming 
one  flesh  in  hate.  When  they  walked  home  to  the 
Nickerson  house  it  was  between  two  lines  of 
people  who  shouted,  "Kill  the  cripple,  old  boy!" 
at  sight  of  Man'el  Costa,  sleep  and  rage  in  his 
eyes,  barring  their  path  half-way  up  the  hill. 
When  he  could  not  stand  up  before  those  two 
intolerable  masks,  the  crowd  jeered  and  hooted 
to  see  him  ducking  away  from  the  Avo's  triumph 
ant  stick. 

It  was  after  this  that  Man'el  began  to  drift 
aimlessly  from  house  to  house,  lowering  and  rum 
bling,  stopping  wherever  they  would  give  him  the 
lees  of  last  night's  wine  and  listen  to  his  threats. 

"Like  t'  see  'im  go  fishin'  t'-day.     Ain't  so 

anxious  t'  go  t'-day,  is  he?" 

105 


LAND'S  END 

They  spurred  him  on;  he  grew  wilder  as  the 
wine  moved  him  more  and  more.  "Go  fishin'! 
I'd  go  with  the  bastard.  Tell  'im  Man'el  Costa  '11 
go.  Take  the  little  Sea  Bird  now — jest  the  two 
of  us — man  an'  man.  Go  fishin',  eh?  I'd  go! 
Tell  'im  Man'el  Costa  'd  go." 

A  blind  man  would  not  have  known  there  were 
people  in  the  Nickerson  living-room  that  morning 
even  though  he  had  sat  there  an  hour.  Sister 
Philomena  huddled  down  in  a  far  corner,  clutch 
ing  an  ancient  shawl  about  her  frame  with  both 
hands,  as  if  to  say,  "They  can't  take  this  away 
from  me — leastways  not  this!" 

Avo  Avellar  sat  between  the  "children"  with 
her  chin  propped  on  her  stick.  She  was  as 
motionless  as  the  dead,  except  for  her  eyes,  which 
went  unceasingly  from  one  to  the  other.  She  had 
spent  herself  in  her  one  wild  night,  and  now  she 
was  bankrupt,  and  content. 

And  all  the  while,  for  an  hour,  perhaps  two 
hours,  Peter  and  Angel  stared  at  the  same  flower 
in  the  middle  of  the  carpet. 

Peter  was  the  first  to  move.  He  got  up  to 
wander  about  the  room  at  his  halting  gait, 
putting  a  hand  on  the  wall  here  and  there, 
standing  for  a  long  time  in  front  of  that  dim 
Virgin  between  the  windows. 

"Make  y'rself  to  home,"  he  said,  suddenly, 
with  his  hand  on  the  door-latch.  Angel  met  his 
eyes  with  a  regard  as  colorless  as  his  own. 

"I  will,"  she  said. 

106 


DOWN   ON   THEIR    KNEES 

Philomena's  fire  had  gone  out  and  the  room 
grew  very  cold.  The  Avo  roused  herself,  mum 
bling,  "Avo  go  git  some  o'  y'  things,  Pretty,"  and 
hobbled  out  by  the  back  way.  Presently  Philo- 
mena  vanished,  too,  noiseless  as  a  scared  mouse, 
leaving  Angel  alone  with  the  flower  in  the  carpet. 

She  was  not  to  continue  so  for  long.  The  door 
swung  open  violently,  discovering  Philomena's 
face  chalkier  than  ever  and  her  hands  clawing 
appeal. 

"Don'  let  'im  go!"  she  screamed.  "Aw,  don' 
let  'im  go.  Please,  girl — good,  pretty  girl — don' 
let  'im  go  in  this!  God  sake!" 

Angel  found  herself  at  a  window  with  a  giddy 
sense  of  having  been  wafted  there  by  some 
mysterious  violence. 

"Wha-what  you  wa-wa-want?"  she  stam 
mered. 

"Don'  let  'im  go!  Don'—"  The  woman's 
passionate  drone  filled  her  ears.  She  wondered 
with  an  odd  detachment  why  the  folks  in  the 
pallid  sunshine  outside  were  shrugging  and 
grinning  at  the  house. 

"Don't  keep  saying  that!"  she  cried.  "Now 
what's  the—  O-oh!" 

The  world  was  leprous.  Here  and  there  on  its 
gray  skin  a  spot  of  pallor  glowed  and  dimmed  as 
the  sun  fought  to  keep  it.  A  spot  ran  down  to 
the  Avo's  palings,  and  another  far  out  there  at 
the  Point  lent  to  the  Light  and  its  outbuildings 

a   momentary   and   unnatural   radiance.      Still 

107 


LAND'S  END 

farther  beyond,  the  mainsail  of  a  sloop  slanted 
across  the  fugitive  glory  and  passed  out,  as  if  a 
gray  hand  had  reached  to  take  it. 

"Him?    Mena— is  that  him?" 

So  this  was  why  the  people  grinned.  As  though 
her  ears  could  hear  through  walls  and  spaces, 
Angel  caught  up  the  words  from  their  lips: 
"Left  'er  on  his  weddin'-day!  Well,  well,  well, 
well,  I  never!'7  A  spot  of  fire  showed  on  her 
cheek,  regular  and  clear-cut,  like  the  mark  of  a 
slap. 

For  a  time  now  she  made  no  effort  to  control 
herself.  Months  of  hate  and  wounds  and  bitter 
ness  had  their  hour  of  bloom.  Once,  in  the  half- 
gloom  of  the  upper  hail,  she  wheeled  on  Philo- 
mena,  who  followed  her  everywhere  like  a 
frightened  dog.  "Don't  let  'im  go,  you  say? 
Ha-ha-ha!  You  make  me  laugh.  Don't  let  'im 
come  back — that's  what  I  pray  on  my  knees  to 
the  sweet  Virgin  of  Pity." 

Her  sick  fury  drove  her  from  room  to  room. 
She  stood  at  an  upper  window  and  saw  the  storm 
getting  itself  together  out  of  that  vast  gray  yeast 
of  the  world.  She  saw  the  chimney-smudges 
topple  for  a  moment  and  then  lie  down  flat  and 
thin,  and  she  heard  the  first  impact  of  the  wind 
against  the  shingles  overhead.  And  there  came 
Avo  Avellar,  fighting  with  the  wind  for  the 
bundle  on  her  head,  pathetic  bits  of  finery  done 
up  in  a  pillow-case,  Angel's  trousseau.  For  the 
first  time,  seemingly,  she  realized  that  the  thing 

108 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

was  done,  completed;  that  she  could  not  some 
how  wake  up  and  find  it  a  nightmare. 

The  house  became  quite  dark.  She  wanted  to 
lie  down  somewhere  and  cover  her  head  with 
blankets  to  keep  out  the  sound  of  the  wind.  In 
a  bedroom  where  she  came  a  photograph  of 
Peter  stood  on  the  bureau.  She  took  it  in  her 
hands,  tore  it  once  across,  and  sinking  down 
in  a  rocker  by  the  window,  remained  there  for  a 
long  time,  holding  the  pieces  in  her  hands.  Her 
sense  of  helplessness  deepened  when  she  glanced 
down  by  and  by  and  discovered  the  futility 
of  her  anger;  the  face  in  the  picture  was  not 
touched. 

It  had  been  taken,  evidently,  before  Peter  was 
hurt.  It  carried  her  back  to  the  front  room  at 
the  Avo's,  and  the  altar  and  the  candles  and  this 
face  here  in  her  hand  dreaming  into  the  light. 
For  here  was  the  same  look  of  the  boy  in  the  man, 
the  same  air  of  an  artless  and  delightful  inde 
cision,  of  expectancy,  of  human  accessibility. 

Angel  lay  down  on  the  bed  and  began  to  cry. 
She  was  so  utterly  worn  out  that  she  wanted  to 
die,  or  to  sleep,  but  the  wind  would  not  let  her 
die  and  it  would  not  let  her  sleep.  The  house 
shivered  with  it;  the  bed  shivered  with  it.  She 
pulled  a  comfort  over  her  head,  but  the  wind 
came  through  that  feeble  barrier,  carrying  its 
voices,  the  singing  sleet,  the  thunder  of  ocean 
flinging  on  its  beaches;  and  other  voices — voices 

insistent,  remote,  and  ghostly.     One  crept  into 

109 


LAND'S  END 

the  room  with  her,  wailing,  "He's  dead  'n'  gone — 
dead  'n'  gone — dead  'n'  gone- 
It  was  so  real  that  she  flung  off  the  comfort 
and  stared  about  wildly.  Philomena  crouched  in 
a  corner,  invisible  save  for  the  gray  patch  of  her 
face.  The  burden  of  her  wailing  changed. 
"What  'd  you  make  'im  go  f'r?  What  'd  you 
make  'im  go  f'r?" 

Angel  lifted  on  her  arms.  "No,  no,  Mena! 
I  never  made  him  go.  I  never!  Could  /  help  it 
if  he  couldn't  stand  the  sight  o'  me?  Could  I, 
Mena?" 

"He  went  because  you  couldn't  stan'  the  sight 
o'  him!  An'  you  know  it,  you — you  terrible, 
wicked  thing,  you!" 

The  tempest  seemed  to  withdraw  for  a  moment 
and  leave  the  bedroom  with  its  two  dim,  gray 
faces  hanging  in  a  windless  hush.  Angel's  voice 
seemed  far  off,  as  though  there  were  another 
person  speaking. 

' '  What— you— talkin'  about?" 

"Dead  'n7  gone,  dead  'n'  gone.  Oh,  dear, 
dear!"  Philomena  rocked  from  side  to  side. 
"You  made  'im  go  in  a  gale  o'  wind.  You  made 
'im  crazy  so  long,  so  long,  an'  you  wouldn't  look 
at  'im  because  he's  a  cripple." 

"What  you  talkin'  about?" 

"What  a  shame,  a  shame!  If  folks  on'y 
knowed  how  good  he  was  an'  how  sweet-tem 
pered  when  he's  alone  an'  nobody  watchin'  him. 
I've  hear'  'im  talk  s'  sweet  it's  a'most  poetry. 

110 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

But  when  folks 's  watchin'  him,  it's  same's  a 
crooked  devil  in  Peter,  an'  he  had  t'  make  fun  of 
'em  first  before  they  made  fun  o'  him.  An'  now 
he's  dead  'n'  gone,  dead  'n'  gone!" 

Angel  slid  from  the  bed  and  shook  the  woman's 
arm,  as  she  might  have  aroused  a  sleeper.  "But 
what  about  me?"  she  demanded. 

"About  you?"  Philomena's  voice  lifted  wild 
and  sore  above  the  gale,  like  a  prayer  for  ven 
geance.  "Why  'd  you  stan'  in  your  yard  f'r 
two  long  year,  then?  Two  year  ago  he  come  home 
one  night  an'  set  in  front  o'  the  fire,  sayin'  to 
himself,  'That  little  girl!'  over  'n'  over  till  you'd 
want  t'  laugh.  You  wouldn'  think  t'  see  a  growed- 
up  man  cry,  would  you?  I've  see  my  brother 
cry  time  a-plenty,  behind  his  four  walls  here.  An' 
other  times  he  wouldn'  cry,  but  say:  'Na-na. 
She  likes  this  here  Costa  boy,  an'  what  is  it  t' 
me?  F'rgit  it,  Peter!'  An'  then  he'd  set  f'rgittin' 
it.  mat  'd  you  do  it  f'r,  girl?" 

"Answer  me  a  question.  Why'd  he  call  me 
ugly  that  night  then?" 

"Answer  me  a  question.  Why  wouldn'  he 
eat  no  supper  that  night?  An'  why'd  he  act  the 
way  he  done  after  you  d  went,  carryin'  on  same's 
a  drunk  man,  spittin'  onto  his  peg-leg,  an' 
tryin'  t'  bust  it  off  in  the  door,  an  cursin'  God 
that  'd  struck  'im  a  cripple  for  pretty  Angel  t' 
make  sport  of?  Answer  me  that  question,  then!" 

Angel  cried  for  pity.    "Mena,  you're  lyin'  to 

me!" 

Ill 


LAND'S  END 

"  Ya-ya,  an7  mebby  it's  a  lie  he's  went  out  in  a 
forty-foot  sloop-boat  an'  got  drownded!"  The 
finality  of  things  seemed  a  tonic  to  the  woman; 
disaster  purged  her  of  the  old  fear  of  disaster  and 
gave  her  a  shrewish  malignance.  "All  right, " 
she  screeched.  "All  right!  He  ain't  the  on'y 
one,  though.  There's  two  went  if  there's  one, 
an'  now  where's  that  pretty  brown-face  Man'el 
o'  yourn?  Ha-ha-ha!  Ow-w!  Don't  do  that!" 

"Did  Man'el  go  with  him?    Say!    Quick!" 

"He  did.    Ya-ya-ya!    He  did!" 

Angel's  face  grew  grayer  still  with  a  horrible 
misgiving.  "But  why?  What's  the  reason  he 
went?" 

"Ya-ya,  you  can  holler  plenty  now.  There's 
two  of  us  now.  Hark!  What's  that — down 
stairs,  poundin'  on  the  door?"  she  whispered. 

Angel  whispered,  too.  "The  door's  locked." 
They  had  an  absurd  sense  of  being  conspirators. 

"It— it  can't  be— " 

"Oh,  Mena,  M-e-e-na,  it  c-c-couldn't  be — " 

They  clung  to  each  other,  forgetting  the  past. 

"Why  don't  you  go,  Angel?" 

"You  go,  Mena!" 

"Na-na,  please  you  go!" 

Angel  crept  down  the  stairs  and,  while  the 
summons  still  continued  on  the  door-panels, 
brought  the  lamp  out  from  the  front  room,  set 
it  on  the  marble-top  table.  Being  distracted,  she 
gave  an  illusion  of  almost  grotesque  self-control. 

She  spoke  to  the  door  as  if  the  boards  had  ears. 

112 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

"Wait!  Wait!  I  hear  you!  Can't  you  wait  a 
second?" 

She  had  trouble  with  the  bolt,  and  even  when 
it  was  undone  she  seemed  not  to  know  enough  to 
pull  the  door,  but  stood  in  the  midd'e  of  the 
hallway  with  her  hands  pressed  against  her 
cheeks.  A  hungry  color  swept  her  face  when 
Man'el  Costa  came  in.  He  laughed  to  see  it. 

"Waitin',  eh?"  He  took  off  his  oilskin  hat 
and  shook  it,  spattering  on  the  floor.  "  Scared 
I  wouldn't  come  back,  eh,  Angel,  honey?" 

"  But— but  where— is— he,  Man'el?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Needn't  be  a-scared  o' 
that  now,  Angel,  old  girl."  He  ripped  his  jacket 
open,  blowing  and  elated.  "Needn't  be  scared 
the  One-leg  '11  bother  you  no  more,  no  more." 

"Man'el!" 

Angel  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  bottom  step 
of  the  stairs.  Man'el  confronted  her,  jubilant. 

"Lucky  girl — lucky,  lucky  girl!  A  swell  house 
an'  a  pot  o'  money  an'  no  harm  done.  Who'd 
've  believed  it,  Angel?  My,  my!  An'  t'  think  I 
was  sorer  'n  hell  this  mornin' !  But  it's  all  right 
now,  ain't  it,  old  girl?" 

"But,  Man'el,  where— Is— he?" 

"Ain't  I  told  you  it's  all  right?  How  d'  7 
know  where  he  is  now?  Las'  I  seen  of  Jim  he's 
ridin'  to  an  anchor  between  the  Peaked  Hill  bars 
with  the  anchor  draggin'  all  the  time  an'  the  inner 
bar  dead  astern.  I  come  in  on  a  freighter.  They 
got  a  boat  'longside  of  us  an'  took  me  off.  God! 
8  H3 


LAND'S  END 

how  it  was  breezin'!  Seas  comin'  clean  acrost 
us!  No  time  to  do  no  argyin  with  him — no 
time  f'r  beggin'  a  man,  I  tell  you  that!" 

"Argyin'?  Beggin'f"  Angel's  hand  groped 
and  found  a  spindle  of  the  banister,  whitening 
with  the  grip.  "Man' el,  but  I  don't  understand. 
Why  didn't  he  come  in  with  you?' 

"Why?  Why?  How 'd  I  know— 'less  it's  the 
reason  he's  went  off  his  head — crazy  's  a  bedbug. 
Settin'  there  into  the  fo'c's'le  with  his  head  in  his 

hands,  bawlin'  like  a  baby Oh,  that — that  you, 

Mena?"  A  decent  solemnity  changed  his  voice 
at  sight  of  Philomena's  face  hanging  in  the  open 
ing  above,  gray,  quiet,  and  stricken.  "It's  too 
bad,  Mena,  but,  Mena — I — I'm  a-scared  your 
brother — "  His  floundering  made  him  nervous. 
"Angel,"  he  protested,  "you  tell  'er!" 

But  Angel  was  gone. 

From  Si  Nickerson's  Lane  it  is  three  miles 
across  the  cape  to  the  Peaked  Hill  life-saving 
station. 

They  could  hardly  believe  their  eyes  in  the 
station-house — Angel  seemed  more  a  wind-driven 
ghost  than  any  human  wanderer,  with  her  white 
lips  and  her  vague,  pleading  eyes  and  her  back 
against  the  booming  panels  of  the  door  by  which 
she  had  entered.  For  the  third  time  now  she 
repeated  her  words,  very  slowly  and  distinctly, 
and  with  a  kind  of  desperate  patience  and  a  child 
like  faith  that  if  she  could  just  make  these  stub- 

114 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

born  men  understand  what  she  wanted  it  would 
be  all  right. 

"You  see — we  got  to  hurry — quick.  Because 
the  reason  my  husband's  on  the  bar  out  there. 
All  alone  in  a  sloop-boat,  my  husband  is,  and  his 
anchor's  draggin'.  Don't  you  understand?" 

The  station  captain,  Ed  Cook,  banged  his  fists 
in  growing  exasperation.  "You  said  that  twict 
a'ready.  I  hear  you.  And  I  tell  you  your 
husband's  all  safe  'n'  sound  at  home  by  this 
time.  I  tell  you  we  got  a  telephone  from  a 
freighter,  and  he  took  'im  off  a  sloop-boat  out 
here.  Can't  you  hear?  You  deef?  Took  'im 
off — brought  'im  in — safe  V  sound  to  home, 
now.  Hear?  Git  me?" 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  she  commenced 
all  over  again.  "  It's  the  other  man's  my  husband. 
He's  all  alone  in  a  sloop-boat — ' 

"God  sake,  be  sensible.  You  don't  think 
they'd  go  t'  work  and  take  one  man  off  a  boat  and 
leave  the  other!" 

No.  2  man,  beyond  the  table,  lowered  an  eyelid 
and  put  his  knuckles  on  his  forehead.  The 
captain,  nodding  understanding,  got  up  from  his 
chair  by  the  stove  and  laid  a  hand  on  Angel's 
arm.  An  odd,  new  kindness  was  in  his  voice. 

"It's  all  right,  girl.  We'll  go  out  in  just  a  few 
minutes,  but  first  you  got  to  dry  your  clo'es  and 
get  rested  up.  Better  lay  down  a  spell,  hadn't 
you?" 

"I  can  go  along,  too,  though,  can't  I?" 
115 


LAND'S  END 

"Sure  thing — surest  thing  you  know!  Only 
first,  now — " 

It  was  curious  to  see  the  rough,  literal  fellows 
grow  artful  in  double-dealing.  They  got  her 
into  the  captain's  office,  and  when  she  would  not 
lie  down  on  the  sofa,  but  sat  clinging  to  a  seaward 
window-sill,  they  took  turns  sitting  with  her, 
coming  out  of  the  darkened  room  now  and  then 
like  men  relieved  from  a  heavy  wheel-watch  to 
rub  their  hands  over  the  stove  and  whisper 
about  it. 

"God  alive!"  muttered  No.  5  once,  "the  way 
she  talks  in  there  you'd  almost  think  'twas  so." 

"But  it  ain't!"  No.  3  shook  the  other  fiercely 
by  the  wrist.  "Good  God!  it  ain't,  you  know." 

It  began  to  do  queer  things  to  them  as  the  night 
wore  on;  that  ceaseless,  boring  reiteration  in  the 
darkened  room.  The  watches  changed,  the  beach 
patrols  came  in  blowing  and  flapping  their 
"oilers,"  heard  the  tale,  and  stared  curiously  at 
the  tellers.  The  reliefs  went  out,  north  and  south, 
and  still  the  clock  ticked  the  night  away,  and  the 
yeast  of  a  strange  unrest  worked  on  in  them. 
It  was  Captain  Cook  himself,  coming  out  of  the 
office  with  sweat  standing  on  his  forehead,  who 
struck  his  fist  on  the  table  and  swore  defensively: 
"Hell! — we  couldn't  la'nch  the  boat  in  this — 
anyhow!" 

He  had  failed  to  latch  the  door  and  it  swung 
open  behind  him,  giving  up  a  voice,  husky, 

quivering   with   an   eagerness   that   would   not 

116 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

dim:  "Please — I'm  dry  now,  ain't  I?  I'm 
rested  up!  Can't  we  go  now?  Because  the 
reason  we  got  to  hurry — hurry!  He'll  be  onto 
the  bar  in — in  half  an  hour,  I  think.  Oh, 
please — " 

"For  God's  sake,  shut  that  door!"  The 
captain  combed  his  beard  violently.  Somewhere 
in  the  back  of  the  room  one  of  the  men  hazarded : 

"It's  moderatin'  a  trifle,  by  the  sound,  ain't  it?" 

The  captain  bawled  at  him,  "Moderatin' 
fall!"  He  was  gone  next  minute,  climbing  the 
stairs  to  the  lookout's  cupola.  "Hey,  Tom!"  he 
shouted  up  the  dark  ascent,  "what  d'  y'  make?" 

The  steady  tramping  overhead  ceased  and  a 
voice  came  down  verv  thin  against  the  back 
ground  of  the  gale.  "She's  haiilin'  a  bit  now. 
Moderatin'  a  bit,  cap'n.  She'll  come  clear  with 
the  sun,  I  wouldn't  wonder." 

"Yeh,  but  that  there  craft  offshore?  Make 
'er  out  any,  Tom?" 

"Mast's  away.  Don't  make  no  life  aboard. 
They  took  that  fellow  off,  y'  know.  She'll  hit 
the  inner  bar  'n  half  an  hour,  I  should — " 

"Half -hour!  What  makes  you  say  a  half- 
nour?"  The  captain's  feet  were  dancing  on 
the  stair.  "Gull-damn  it!  You  heard  her." 

They  got  out  of  the  house  on  tiptoe,  like  a  band 
of  conspirators.  They  had  to  fight  the  surf-boat 
down  the  bluff  against  a  wall  of  wind  and  spray, 
gray-pink  with  the  coming  dawn.  They  caught 
their  breath,  waiting  for  the  break  of  the  wave, 

117 


LAND'S  END 

yelled  all  together,  ran  the  boat  out  through  the 
white  smother,  up  to  their  shoulders,  scrambled 
aboard,  hauling  at  one  another,  tugging — and 
one  that  they  tugged  at  was  Angel  Avellar. 

"I'm  rested  now,"  she  cried. 

They  thrust  her  down  between  two  thwarts, 
bawling:  "Shut  up!  Shut  up!"  and,  catching 
half  the  crest  of  the  coming  wave,  slid  strongly 
into  the  trough. 

When  they  came  up  with  the  Sea  Bird,  beyond 
the  lather  of  the  inner  bar,  they  found  a  dead 
thing,  ready  for  her  grave — a  log,  lifting  and  sub 
siding  sluggishly  with  the  swells,  her  decks  swept 
clean  of  gear,  her  mast  lying  over  the  port  board 
with  the  rigging  swathed  about  it  like  a  hank  of 
seaweed.  They  rested  on  their  oars  a  couple  of 
fathoms  from  her  side,  just  keeping  their  heads 
up  to  the  sea,  and  set  up  a  desultory  hailing. 
They  began  to  feel  more  than  ever  idiotic;  the 
inevitable  revulsion  set  in.  One  shouted,  "HelPs 
fire!  le's  get  out  o'  this!"  and  others,  "That's 
right!  Damn  fools,  the  lot  of  us!"  The  captain 
feathered  the  stern-sweep,  waiting  for  the  break 
to  swing  the  boat  inshore.  He  tried  to  avoid 
Angel's  eyes,  two  thwarts  away,  and  when  he 
failed  he  scowled  glumly  at  her,  grumbling: 

"Look  what  y'  done!" 

It  made  no  impression  on  her.  She  turned  her 
eyes  across  the  little  strip  of  water  and  back  to 
him,  smiling,  half  wistful,  half  joyous.  "He's 
waitin'  for  us." 

118 


DOWN    ON    THEIR    KNEES 

Swinging  the  boat's  head  in  with  an  angry 
jerk,  he  cried:  " God's  sake!  climb  aboard  then, 
an'  get  it  off  your  mind  and  over  with.  Heave 
'er  aboard  there,  boys!  God's  sake!  the  bother 
of  'er!" 

Very  cautiously  she  disappeared  within  the 
companionway  of  the  tiny  forecastle.  They 
waited,  holding  on  and  fending  off  with  their 
boat-hooks,  afraid  to  meet  one  another's  eyes, 
grumbling,  "  'S  too  bad — too  damn  bad." 

The  wrack  over  the  water  grew  lighter  and 
changed  imperceptibly  from  pink  to  a  pale 
lemon,  and  still  they  waited,  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  till  Ed  Cook  protested,  "By  Heaven! 
that's  about  enough  o'  this"  and  got  himself  over 
the  sloop's  taffrail.  He  teetered  forward  and  bent 
down  to  peer  into  the  black  hole,  and  then,  turn 
ing  half  around,  he  sat  down  in  a  heap  on  the 
house  and  took  off  his  hat.  "And  jus'  to  think!" 
he  wondered,  "jus'  to  think!" 

Angel's  voice  came  out  to  him,  insistent  and 
faintly  querulous,  as  though  she  tried  to  wake 
a  sleeper.  "Peter,  Peter — look  at  me,  Peter! 
Didn't  you  know  I  liked  you  always — ever  since 
• — ever  since—  Oh,  Peter,  Peter! — not  to  know 
that!  Peter,  look  at  me!" 

Another  voice  was  shallow  and  bewildered, 
like  the  sleeper  awakened. 

"Wh'— why— Angel!  That  little  girl!"  He 
must  have  been  touching  her  with  his  incredulous 
hands,  down  there  in  the  gloomy  place,  for  the 

119 


LAND'S  END 

next  words  were:  "Why,  you — you're  really! 
But — but  what  you  doin'  down  here,  An-angel?" 

"Can't  you  see,  Peter?  Can't  you  see?" 
There  was  an  inexpressible  triumph  in  the  cry. 
"I'm  down  on  my  knees,  Peter!" 

The  dawn  came  with  a  rush  now,  striking 
through  the  mists  with  its  keen,  level  blades, 
cutting  them  away  in  vast,  high-curling  slices, 
letting  in  the  blue  sky. 


THE  KILLER'S  SON 

1AM,  as  you  know,  a  practising  physician. 
My  home  is  in  Endicott,  Vermont.  My  li 
brary,  which  serves  also  as  my  office,  faces  the 
old  Wait  house,  where  Anthony  Brown  and  his 
mother  came  to  live  (out  of  nowhere)  and  where 
they  spent  their  thirteen  years  of  silence  and 
isolation.  You  have  expressed  an  interest  in  the 
story  of  Anthony  Brown.  I  set  it  down  as  truly 
and  consecutively  as  I  am  able.  Part  of  the 
events  chronicled  here  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes, 
part  I  had  from  the  little  man  with  the  crooked 
head,  and  part  from  Anthony  Brown — for  it  is 
by  that  name  I  shall  always  remember  him. 
You  will  understand  that  I  am  the  "Mr.  Doctor" 
of  the  narrative. 

Here  are  some  of  the  things  Anthony  Brown 
knew  at  the  time  of  my  first  acquaintance  with 
him.  He  was  then  about  four  years  old. 

He  knew,  first  of  all,  that  he  did  not  possess 
such  a  thing  as  a  father.  He  knew  that  he  had 
come  with  his  mother  to  this  dark,  ancient  house 

from  another  place,  far  off,  where  the  houses  all 

121 


LAND'S  END 

stood  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  where  a  man 
brought  the  milk  in  a  yellow  cart,  like  a  little 
cabin  set  on  wheels.  He  remembered  that  they 
had  come  away  from  that  place  in  a  tremendous 
hurry,  but  when  he  tried  to  discuss  this  with  his 
mother  the  "look"  always  appeared  on  her  face. 

Then,  too,  his  mother  had  been  something 
different  in  that  place  of  the  shouldering  houses- — 
not  "Mrs.  Brown."  Somehow  he  could  not  seem 
to  catch  the  right  set  of  words  for  her,  though 
sometimes  when  he  was  alone  he  would  shout  out 
"Mrs. — er — "  very  suddenly,  in  order  to  trick 
that  elusive  other  word  into  the  light.  It  was 
the  same  way  with  that  word  which  had  meant 
his  brother — oh,  yes,  there  had  been  a  brother, 
even  though  his  mother  said  there  had  not. 
It  was  probably  some  game  his  mother  was 
playing — an  inscrutable  game,  because  one  must 
not  laugh  or  appear  to  be  enjoying  it.  He  had 
laughed  once,  and  then  there  was  the  "look" 
which  always  frightened  him.  But  he  could 
remember  the  fact  of  a  brother  clearly,  even  if 
he  were  a  little  misty  as  to  how  he  had  looked  and 
quite  blank  about  the  word  which  had  meant 
him.  Why,  even  he  himself  had  been  called 
another  word.  It  was  not  "Anthony."  It  was 
something  very  like  it.  He  could  get  the  taste 
of  it  in  his  mouth  when  he  jumped  out  at  it — 
but  never  quite  it. 

His  mother  played  the  same  game  even  with 
the  Congregational  minister  and  Mrs.  J.  D, 

122 


THE    KILLER'S   SON 

Ellory  of  Elloryhurst,  the  first  callers — and  the 
last.  Anthony  could  not  understand  this  episode 
in  the  least,  and  so  it  had  to  take  its  place  with 
the  other  " naturally"  things,  along  with  that 
abrupt  departure  from  the  region  of  the  yellow 
milk-cart.  The  callers  came  quite  kindly  in  the 
Ellory  hurst  surrey,  and  they  smiled  at  Anthony 
when  they  were  seated  in  the  parlor.  He  was 
amazed  to  hear  them  asking  if  his  father  had 
been  long  dead — as  though  they  did  not  know 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  father — and  where 
his  mother  had  come  from.  He  could  have  told 
them  about  the  yellow  milk-cart  himself — it  was 
his  mother  who  had  forgotten  now.  At  least  she 
was  shaking  her  head,  and  Anthony  could  see  the 
"look"  coming.  But  at  that  juncture  he  was 
shut  out  of  the  room  and  could  follow  the  affair 
no  further,  save  that  there  came  a  muffled  out 
cry  of  indignation  from  Mrs.  Ellory  of  Ellory- 
hurst  followed  by  the  banging  of  the  front  door. 
Nor  did  he  see  his  mother  again  that  day  or  night, 
a  crack  of  light  under  her  door  being  the  only 
token  of  her  existence  when  he  went  up  to  bed, 
hungry  and  frightened. 

Of  course  there  was  fruit  from  this  seed. 
Anthony  did  not  understand  at  all  what  it  meant 
when  the  boys  with  whom  he  was  trying  to  play 
"ships"  in  the  brook  behind  his  house  called 
him  names.  It  is  quite  probable  they  did  not 
understand  either — something  heard  at  home, 

more  than  likely. 

123 


LAND'S  END 

He  wondered  if  the  reason  the  other  boys  would 
not  play  with  him  was  because  his  ship  was  so 
much  more  splendid  than  theirs.  He  had  made 
it  out  of  a  sharpened  board  and  it  had  sails  of 
envelopes  which  Mr.  Doctor  across  the  street 
had  given  him.  It  was  something  of  a  trick  to 
keep  the  cargo  on,  but  once  tied  down  with  string 
it  journeyed  to  the  second  stump  on  his  own  side 
of  the  brook  with  quite  creditable  security. 

It  was  impossible  to  conceive  why  his  mother 
should  come  out  of  " behind"  so  suddenly  and 
jerk  him  away  from  the  bank  and  then  set  to 
work  with  a  fearful,  ice-cold  deliberation  to  break 
that  ship  of  his  into  all  the  splinters  it  could  be, 
using  two  flat  rocks  for  the  destruction.  It  must 
have  been  another  of  those  "naturally"  things. 
But  Anthony  had  never  seen  the  "look"  so 
horrible  and  hard  and  crazy  on  her  face  as  when 
she  led  him  away  then  to  lock  him,  like  a  criminal, 
in  the  woodhouse. 

That  was  the  night  the  wind  blew.  Anthony 
could  hear  it  rising  from  the  first,  tentative  frisk- 
ings  about  the  shingles  of  the  woodhouse  to  the 
full  majesty  of  its  flight.  There  were  a  million 
trillion  great  devils  back  there  in  the  hills  trying 
to  catch  it — that  was  why  it  ran  so  fast  and 
screeched  so  loudly.  It  rocked  the  floor  under 
his  feet,  and  once  there  was  a  fearful  crashing  in 
the  yard,  which  was  a  bough  tearing  away  from 
one  of  the  maples.  He  did  not  know  his  mother 
had  come  till  he  heard  the  soft  scraping  of  the 

124 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

latch  outside,  and  even  then  he  did  not  see  her, 
as  she  ran  off  silently  as  she  had  come. 

It  was  very  hard  to  have  to  go  up-stairs  all 
alone  in  the  dark  when  the  wind  was  blowing. 
He  knew  what  happened  when  the  wind  blew. 
He  had  been  through  it  before.  It  was  always 
the  same.  A  crack  of  light  under  his  mother's 
door,  bright  and  dim,  bright  and  dim,  like  a 
Jack-o'-lantern  when  the  candle  is  going  out. 
That  was  because  she  had  all  the  windows  open 
and  the  lamp  smoked.  " Naturally"  she  had  the 
windows  open  when  the  wind  blew.  He  would 
have  been  amazed  to  learn  that  all  grown-ups 
did  not  open  their  windows  wide  to  the  gale, 
and  writhe  and  groan  and  become  quite  different 
from  what  they  were  in  quiet  weather. 

This  was  the  most  incredibly  fearful  night. 
For  the  crack  of  light  became  intensely  brilliant 
just  as  his  boot-soles  were  passing  it,  then  it  went 
out  altogether  and  his  mother  screamed — inside 
the  door  there.  That  was  why  he  ran  down 
stairs  and  out  into  the  yard  behind  the  lilac-bush, 
where  Mr.  Doctor  found  him  in  the  great  wind  and 
had  the  true  state  of  affairs  out  of  him  directly. 

It  was  a  long  wait,  there  in  the  front  hall, 
wrapped  in  his  mother's  cape,  until  Mr.  Doctor 
came  down  the  stairs  again,  with  his  candle 
making  the  shadows  clamber  up  and  sit  on  top 
of  the  high,  dark  furniture.  And  then  the 
questions  Mr.  Doctor  asked — so  many  million 
of  them — for  a  sleepy  boy  to  answer. 

125 


LAND'S  END 

"And  what  do  you  say  to  this,  sir?'7  Mr. 
Doctor  asked  abruptly,  putting  a  piece  of  card 
board  beneath  the  boy's  nose.  "Ever  seen  this 
before?" 

The  boy  had  never  seen  it  or  anything  like  it. 
There  were  nine  people  pictured  there  (if  one 
counted  the  bundle  in  the  woman's  lap).  A  man 
sat  there  and  his  six  sons  stood  about  him.  The 
largest  of  them  might  have  been  eighteen,  the 
smallest  (not  counting  the  bundle)  six.  The  man's 
skin  was  smooth  and  dark,  like  the  Wait  furni 
ture  in  the  hall;  his  hair,  parted  over  the  left  tem 
ple,  was  black;  a  black  mustache  shot  across  his 
lip  and  turned  at  either  tip  straight  up  to  the 
high  cheek-bones.  And  though  he  was  dressed  in 
unmistakable  "Sunday  clothes,"  he  carried  them 
with  a  certain  debonair  tilt  of  the  shoulders — not 
sheepishly,  as  our  Endicott  farmers  do.  A  full- 
belted,  lusty  man,  whom  one  could  imagine  going 
a  long  way  to  carry  a  romantic  point. 

The  woman,  sitting  in  the  center  with  the 
bundle,  was  very  beautiful:  her  eyes  were  calm, 
and  her  hair  had  not  then  turned  streaked  as  it 
had  since.  But  how  queer  of  her  to  be  there! 
She  was  no  more  like  the  man,  or  those  six  replicas 
of  him  standing  at  his  shoulders,  than  she  was 
like  the  seventh  replica,  come  out  of  the  bundle 
now  and  sitting,  shivering  and  wide-eyed,  on  the 
old  Wait  hall-chest. 

Mr.  Doctor  looked  at  the  picture  a  long  time 
and  then  at  the  boy,  as  though  comparing  them, 

126 


THE    KILLER'S   SON 

He  said,  slowly:  "And  yet  they  call  you  a — er — 
We  won't  say.  .  .  .  What's  that?7' 

"  Raphul!"  the  boy  had  cried  out,  with  a  sudden 
explosive  triumph.  Mr.  Doctor  saw  his  finger, 
still  grubby  with  front-yard  mold,  hovering  over 
the  boy  of  six  who  leaned  on  the  pictured  woman's 
shoulder.  "Raphul — I  just  remembered."  He 
had  caught  that  word  which  meant  his  brother 
without  jumping. 

'  'There  was  another  place  where  I  lived, ' '  he  went 
on,  a  frown  of  concentration  between  his  black  eye 
brows.  "I  just  remembered.  It  was  before." 

Mr.  Doctor  leaned  forward  and  pinched  his 
knee,  as  though  to  help  him. 

"What  was  it  like?"  he  said.  The  boy's  eyes 
wandered  here  and  there  in  vacancy.  The  frown 
deepened  as  though  he  sought  desperately 
through  the  dim  rooms  of  memory. 

"I  can't — I  can't—  The  boy  was  struggling 
painfully  to  remember.  Mr.  Doctor  shook  his 
head  and  muttered: 

"Too  much — too  much."  Then  he  took  the 
picture  up-stairs  again  and  put  it  back  under 
the  table  where  he  had  found  it.  He  went  on 
tiptoe,  so  as  not  to  disturb  Anthony's  mother,  who 
slept  because  he  had  given  her  some  medicine. 

Thirteen  years  is  a  long  time  to  live  in  one 
yard,  when  no  one  comes  into  that  yard  but  the 
postman  and  the  boy  from  Lucas's  store  and  Mr. 
Doctor.  The  postman  had  been  three  different 

127 


LAND'S  END 

persons  and  the  boy  from  Lucas's  store  at  least 
six  when  Anthony  was  seventeen. 

A  life  of  that  sort  does  things  to  one — very 
queer  things.  For  one,  the  continuous  existence 
in  the  shadow — of  the  indoors,  of  the  Wait 
maples,  of  one  knows  not  what — makes  one 
pale,  even  though  there  be  an  echo  of  something 
darker  beneath  the  pallor.  For  another,  it  makes 
one  slight  and  nervous  and  inept  at  handling 
things,  and  moody  and  apt  to  shout  out  with  an 
abrupt  bitterness  at  Mr.  Doctor:  "If  she'd  only 
tell  me  what  it  was  he  did,  why,  it  wouldn't  be 
such  a  blind  sort  of  hell." 

"  Steady,  boy.  Now  what's  wrong  with  your 
' innards'?  Tell  the  doctor." 

"That's  it — that's  it.  What  is  the  matter  with 
rny  ' innards'?  What's  in  my  blood  that  one 
can't  speak  of  it?  What  in  the  name  of  the  devil 
was  this  inconceivable  crime  of  my  father's? 
What  am  I  tainted  with,  that  she  would  rather 
have  people  avoid  and  scorn  me  than  that?" 

Then  the  inevitable  lapse  into  inertia  and 
gloom,  and  after  that  the  unwholesome  fever 
mounting  again — 

"I'm  no  good — I  know  I'm  no  good.  I'm 
hollow.  I  can  feel  it.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm 
going  to  do.  I'm  going  to  run  away  from  this 
place — I  don't  care — I  don't  care — " 

"Hush,  boy;  here's  your  mother." 

It  was  on  the  day  this  talk  was  talked  that  the 

128 


THE    KILLER'S   SON 

man  came  down  Methodist  Hill.  One  could  see 
him  far  off,  crawling  like  a  little  fly  down  the 
road.  It  was  very  dry  and  a  tiny  umbrella  of 
dust  followed  above  him. 

He  came  down  and  dipped  out  of  view  behind 
the  fence,  still  far  off,  came  on  and  on  under  his 
umbrella  of  dust  and  had  passed  as  far  as 
Anthony's  lilac  when  he  happened  to  look  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  doorway.  Anthony's  mother, 
coming  out  of  the  door  just  then,  put  out  her 
two  hands  suddenly  to  clasp  the  door-frames, 
as  if  for  support.  The  man  appeared  to  hesitate 
and  marvel,  shuffled  his  feet  in  the  dust ;  then  he 
mopped  his  brow  and  went  on,  shaking  his  head. 

Anthony's  mother  watched  him,  without  mov 
ing  her  head.  He  went  perhaps  a  dozen  rods 
along  the  street  and  stopped  again.  Then  he 
came  plodding  back  and  stood  in  the  gateway,  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  His  head,  now  that  it  was  un 
covered,  appeared  quite  crooked,  as  though  it 
had  been  twisted  with  an  enormous  pair  of 
tweezers.  He  was  tanned  to  a  rich  brown,  and 
dusty. 

"Is  that  you?"  he  said,  addressing  Anthony's 
mother.  "We  all  been  lookin'  for  you." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  as  though  that  single  syllable 
had  torn  its  way  through  flesh. 

The  man  put  his  bundle  down  by  the  gate  and 
came  in.  The  two  in  the  garden  beside  the  house 
could  hear  a  scraping  of  chairs  from  an  unseen 
corner  of  the  porch. 

9  129 


LAND'S  END 

Anthony  had  been  watching  all  this  with  his 
eyes  wide  and  his  lips  open  a  little,  like  his 
mother's.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  as  always  with 
a  sudden,  passing  fire. 

"Say — say — that's  too  much.  A  bum — and 
she  knew  him." 

Still  with  the  glow  of  that  short  fire  he  jumped 
from  the  bench  and  started  toward  the  front  of 
the  house,  but  Mr.  Doctor  was  in  front,  waving 
him  back. 

"I  have  a  right,"  Anthony  cried.  "I  have  a 
right  to  hear.  Say — haven't  I?" 

"If  she  calls  you,  yes." 

But  the  boy  was  not  to  be  put  off  with  that. 
Thirteen  years  is  too  long  a  time  to  look  inward 
and  see  nothing.  The  doctor  gave  ground 
slowly  before  his  passion.  They  could  hear  the 
man's  voice  from  the  porch  now,  raised  in  what 
might  have  been  supplication  or  a  sort  of  defiance 
or  a  threat.  It  was  a  threat.  The  words  came 
plainly. 

"All  righ' — all  righ'.  Go  your  own  way,  an' 
I  weel  go  mine.  But  w'en  I  go  mine  I  weel  tell 
w'ere  they  can  fin'  heem — the  killer's  son.  /So." 

There  was  no  trouble  for  Mr.  Doctor  now 
keeping  Anthony  in  the  garden.  No.  Anthony 
walked  back  to  the  bench  and  sat  down  and  ran 
his  thin  hand  over  his  damp  forehead.  He  did  not 
speak  for  a  long  time.  By  and  by  he  said: 

"Well,  at  least  I  can  see  something — now." 

There  was  a  sound  of  feet  scraping  on  the 
130 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

front  steps  and  then  the  man  with  the  crooked 
head  came  quickly  around  the  corner  of  the 
porch  as  though  to  run  back  into  the  garden 
where  Anthony  sat  staring  at  nothing.  But 
Anthony's  mother  was  too  quick  at  the  side  steps. 
There  she  stood,  facing  the  intruder,  her  arms 
flung  out  to  bar  his  path.  There  was  something 
unutterably  craven  about  that  gesture,  not 
credible  in  this  tragic  woman  with  her  streaked 
hair  flying.  At  the  same  time  there  was  some 
thing  indomitable  about  her  cringing,  like  a  rat 
in  a  corner. 

"No,  no,  no,  no!"  was  all  she  cried,  and  her 
voice  sounded  oddly  girlish.  It  was  as  though 
she  had  treasured  that  instant  of  flaming  energy 
from  her  childhood,  to  realize  it  now. 

The  man  peered  across  her  shoulders  for  a 
moment  at  the  boy.  Then  he  drew  back,  threw 
out  his  hands  in  signal  of  defeat,  laughed,  and 
went  away,  raising  his  umbrella  of  dust  to  follow 
him  down  the  street. 

That  night  the  wind  blew,  and  Anthony's 
mother  died.  She  must  have  been  packing  half 
the  night,  for  when  they  found  her  in  the  morning 
her  room  was  in  a  litter  and  two  trunks  almost 
full  of  things.  She  had  had  time,  at  least,  to 
scrawl  a  note,  after  she  knew  she  was  to  die. 
Anthony  showed  it  to  the  doctor. 

Go  to  my  father's,  Robt.  Glazier,  Elmira,  N.  Y.,  sure 
not  to 

131 


LAND'S  END 

There  the  corner  was  torn  off  raggedly.  They 
hunted  through  the  room  for  the  missing  frag 
ment,  but  found  nothing  to  fit  it. 

There  were  bank-notes  on  the  table — sixty- 
odd  dollars — together  with  a  registered  envelope, 
such  as  had  come  every  month  they  had  lived  in 
Endicott.  It  was  registered  from  Elmira. 

She  was  buried  two  days  later  in  the  lot  she 
had  bought.  That  evening  the  doctor  walked 
across  the  street  to  talk  with  Anthony  Brown. 
It  was  always  hard  to  find  Anthony,  especially 
in  the  dusk,  for  Anthony  had  lived  with  the 
shadows  so  long  he  had  absorbed  something  of 
their  quality.  The  doctor  searched  the  garden 
and  all  through  the  house,  even  to  the  garret  and 
the  woodhouse.  At  length  he  had  to  give  it 
up.  Anthony  was  gone. 

I  think  I  can  picture  the  boy  sitting  in  the 
Boston  train,  his  queer,  pale,  dark  face  lowering 
and  defiant  in  the  sickly  flare  of  the  smoking- 
car  lamp.  On  the  ragged,  three-cornered  bit  of 
paper  in  his  hand  were  the  words:  " Boston — 
sure  not  to  Boston."  It  will  be  remembered  that 
the  paper  which  Anthony  had  shown  to  Mr. 
Doctor  was  torn  raggedly  at  the  lower  right-hand 
corner. 

Poor  woman,  ridden  by  some  horror  as  yet 
occult  and  unfathomable,  the  room  and  the 
ancient  Wait  furnishings  beginning  to  sweep 
ground  arid  around  her  in  their  ultimate,  dim 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

revolutions — to  send  that  crying  message  from 
the  shadows — that  message  of  all  the  messages 
in  the  world!  In  Heaven's  name,  did  she  not 
know  her  own  son,  with  the  dry  wood  of  thirteen 
years  to  blossom  for  such  a  spark  as  that?  Not 
go  to  Boston?  Why,  if  there  were  even  a  hanging 
at  the  other  end  of  it,  he  would  go  to  Boston. 
What  ill  in  all  the  category  of  ills  could  be  darker 
than  the  shadow  of  Wait  maples?  After  all,  a 
predisposition  toward  waking  in  the  night  and 
listening  fearfully  to  the  roar  of  blood  through 
one's  internal  passages,  a  habit  of  dropping 
things,  a  sudden  and  overwhelming  desire  to  be 
dead — all  this  will  grace  the  end  of  a  rope  as 
handsomely  as  sturdier  virtues. 

I  don't  think  he  ever  really  understood  that 
his  mother  was  gone,  up  to  that  moment  when 
he  stood  on  a  corner  and  stared  down  the  colored 
reach  of  Hanover  Street,  with  its  teams  and 
trolleys  and  hawkers  and  general  hurly-burly  of 
things  wanting  to  be  sold  before  closing-time.  It 
was  then  that  he  began  to  be  sick  in  the  pit  of 
his  stomach  on  account  of  all  those  thousands  of 
people  who  passed  and  told  him  very  plainly  that 
the  world  was  empty.  And  also  on  account  of  the 
air.  He  could  not  say  what  was  the  matter  with 
the  air,  except  that  it  made  him  feel  like  quite 
another  person.  A  fat,  red  drayman  passed  at 
that  moment  high  over  the  crowd.  It  occurred 
to  Anthony  that  if  he  wanted  to,  he  could  very  well 

have  that  red  fellow  down  and  maul  his  face — 

133 


LAND'S  END 

that  is,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sickness  in  the 
pit  of  his  stomach.  The  air  had  an  utterly 
different  smell  from  maple  shadow — a  damp, 
acrid  smell. 

Anthony  began  to  drift  down  with  the  crowds, 
and  the  air  smelled  more  and  more  outlandish 
at  every  step.  Yes,  he  was  quite  another  person. 
It  was  evident  that  this  other  person  (who  spec 
ulated  confidently  about  thrashing  draymen) 
was  expecting  to  see  something  happen — some 
thing  spectacular,  like  fireworks  or  a  runaway. 
The  pit  of  Anthony's  stomach  was  hollow  now, 
as  though  he  had  been  a  dried  bladder,  blown  up 
very  tight  and  needing  only  a  sudden  thump  to 
make  him  screech  and  collapse.  He  wished  very, 
very  much  that  he  were  back  under  the  Wait 
maples  and  his  mother  in  sight. 

He  went  the  length  of  Hanover  Street,  and  the 
spectacle  failed  to  appear.  He  came  into  Atlantic 
Avenue  and  stood  beneath  the  green  globe  in 
front  of  Schlinsky's.  It  was  a  queer  light — that 
green  light.  He  could  almost  screech  now.  Two 
whistles  blared,  one  near  at  hand,  the  other  far 
away  and  faint,  sounding  in  the  intervals.  He 
turned  and  stared  across  the  street.  A  gaunt, 
high-angled  bowsprit  crept  into  view  between  two 
buildings  and  hung  there  motionless,  its  under  side 
illuminated  by  a  street  lamp.  A  filmy,  wavering 
line  of  spume  showed  on  its  white  paint,  cast  up 
there  by  some  long-dead  tropical  breaker  to  dust 
away  in  the  glare  of  a  city  lamp. 

134 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

Anthony  Brown  gulped  very  hard  and  won 
dered  if  he  were  going  to  die.  The  door  of 
Schlinsky's  behind  him  opened  with  a  slight  crash 
and  four  men  came  out,  one  of  them  drunk 
enough  to  roll  against  his  fellows  now  and  then. 
All  of  them  were  dark,  with  dark  mustaches. 
They  had  on  tight,  short  coats,  faded  green  or 
brown,  and  leather  sea-boots. 

Well,  that  wasn't  much  of  a  spectacle  to  behold. 
Anthony  was  vaguely  angry  at  this  other  person 
who  had  come  so  breathlessly  to  gape  at  four 
tipsy  fellows  coming  out  of  a  door.  All  the 
same,  he  screeched  a  little  in  his  cheeks,  and 
collapsed. 

" Hey!"  he  cried. 

The  last  man  stopped  and  squinted  curiously 
at  him.  Anthony  fell  in  step  and  walked  along. 
The  man  grunted  a  question  in  an  outlandish 
tongue. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Anthony. 

They  crossed  the  street  and  came  to  a  tall  gate 
of  stakes  with  a  smaller  gate  cut  in  the  right- 
hand  corner.  Inside  it  was  still  darker,  though 
there  were  lights,  riding  high  and  blinking  at 
slow  intervals,  as  though  they  hung  in  the  edge 
of  a  forest  troubled  by  a  ghostly  and  soundless 
wind.  The  footfalls  rang  hollow.  There  was 
water  underneath,  coming  and  going,  slow  pulsa 
tions  fretting  invisible  obstructions. 

"  Wat  vessel  you?"  asked  the  man  at  his  side, 

speaking  abruptly  in  uncouth  English. 

135 


LAND'S  END 

"Huh?  No— I  don't  know."  It  seemed  that 
Anthony  could  not  say  anything  in  a  connected 
way. 

"You  go  'way,"  the  man  growled  at  him, 
turned,  reached  out  into  space,  caught  something 
that  held,  and  swung  off  and  down.  Anthony 
followed,  clawing  awkwardly  at  the  wire  shrouds 
which  met  his  groping.  He  rested  there  a 
moment,  his  cheek  bearing  on  a  hempen  rung, 
and  observed  how  the  whole  world  had  fallen  to 
swaying  and  bobbing  gently.  Then  he  laughed 
outright  in  the  dark.  Naturally  the  world  would 
sway  so.  "Naturally."  It  was  curious  how 
memory  searched  out  that  word  from  the  lumber 
of  the  past  and  laid  it  before  him,  like  an  unim 
peachable  servitor.  The  air  stank  in  his  nostrils 
with  the  death  of  generations  of  fish  and  the 
acrid  stench  of  bilge,  stirred  on  its  planking  by 
the  wash  of  craft  in  the  basin.  Anthony  did  not 
know  it  then,  but  the  greatest  fish-wharf  in  the 
Western  world  hung  there  level  with  his  dipping 
shoulder. 

He  laughed  again  and  clung  to  the  shrouds. 
A  heavy  body  approached  across  the  deck 
below. 

"  Tu  que  he  que  queres?" 

"Huh?" 

"You  no  spik  Portugee?  Well — w'at  you 
wan'— ey?" 

"I  don't  know— it's  funny— I—" 

"Git  out!"  the  man  bellowed.    He  rushed  the 
136 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

shrouds,  shook  them  violently,  crowded  the 
boy's  feet.  "Git  out — I  don'  want  no  drunks 
aboard  'ere — no  more  'n  I  'ave  got.  Beat  eet." 

Anthony  went  back  along  the  echoing  boards 
and  opened  that  gate  within  a  gate  through  which 
he  had  come.  He  was  still  laughing  to  himself. 
The  bleating  of  that  enraged  and  shadowy  ship's- 
master  had  not  reached  him  at  all. 

He  had  opened  the  gate  carelessly,  but  now, 
curiously,  he  could  not  go  out  of  it.  What  had 
he,  Anthony  Brown,  to  do  with  this  pile  of  city 
cliffs  confronting  him  from  the  other  side  of  the 
aperture,  staring  him  down  with  its  myriad 
unblinking,  precisely  angled  eyes?  It  terrified 
him  of  a  sudden,  as  the  face  of  a  stranger  peering 
in  a  midnight  window — a  stranger  of  whom  one 
has  a  dim  and  uneasy  memory. 

Anthony  closed  the  gate  and  turned  back  into 
the  familiar  dark.  It  laid  its  soothing  fingers  on 
his  temples.  It  could  afford  to  be  tender,  this 
dark,  without  fear  for  its  precious  dignity.  It 
was  so  tranquil,  so  self-sustained,  so  incorruptible, 
so  ancient — this  somber  water.  The  boy  came 
back  to  that  swaying  ladder  from  which  he  had 
been  banished,  descended  to  the  deck,  and 
prowled  about  on  tiptoe,  like  the  ghost  of  one 
disinherited.  He  came  upon  a  coil  of  Manila 
cable,  piled  to  the  level  of  his  waist  and  sloping 
smoothly  inside  like  the  section  of  an  enormous 
funnel.  He  curled  himself  in  the  bottom  and 
slept,  shielded  by  the  sides. 

137 


LAND'S  END 

It  was  red  morning  when  he  woke  and  stared 
up  through  the  schooner's  taut  lines.  He  was 
quite  blank  about  things.  He  wondered  why  his 
back  ached  so,  until  he  discovered  that  he  lay 
flat  upon  it  in  the  center  of  the  deck,  where  he 
had  been  thrown  violently.  A  vaguely  familiar 
uproar  was  in  progress  near  him.  He  turned  his 
eyes  and  perceived  the  roarer — that  enraged 
shadow  of  the  night  before — bawling  and  gestur 
ing  across  the  weather  rail.  What  was  it  all 
about?  He  raised  himself  painfully  and  followed 
the  direction  of  the  furious  pantomime  with  his 
bewildered  eyes. 

One  half  of  the  horizon  was  clear  water,  the 
other  half  water  clogged  with  islands.  Here  was  a 
white  lighthouse,  looking  preternaturally  clear- 
cut  and  thin  in  the  level  rays  of  the  sun.  Over 
there  were  straight  lines  of  green  bordered  by 
tiny  doll-houses  converging  up  the  slope  of  a  hill, 
with  a  ruffle  of  white  breakers  all  around. 

Nearer  at  hand,  a  towboat  sheered  off  from  the 
schooner.  Her  master,  a  fat,  dingy  man  with  a 
small  head,  sat  like  an  inverted  turnip  on  the 
tafTrail,  watching  across  the  water-space  the 
ponderous  antics  of  the  schooner  captain.  He 
appeared  quite  phlegmatic  and  uninterested. 

"Don'  you  'ear?"  the  man  bellowed.  "We 
got  bum — stow' way.  Come  tek  'eem  back." 

The  towboat  man  opened  his  mouth  without 
disturbing  his  other  facial  muscles. 

"Go  t'  hell!    Gi'  me  my  hunderd  V  thirty. 

138    ' 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

I  bin  towin'  you  five  months,  you  black  Portugee. 
Show  me  some  money  or  say  goo'-by.  Me  fer  the 
steam-trawls — they  got  money."  He  continued 
to  recede  and  diminish,  hanging  over  the  white 
turmoil  of  his  wake,  immobile  and  scornful. 

The  skipper  watched  him  for  a  time,  his  arms 
still  suspended  in  the  air.  Then  he  turned  and 
kicked  Anthony  heavily. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  beat  eet,  ey?  You — you— 
I'll  feex  you,  all  right/7 

He  tramped  off  and  let  himself  down  the 
companion,  one  baleful  eye  hanging  over  the 
house  to  the  last.  Anthony  began  to  laugh.  A 
wreath  of  spray  flung  over  the  rail  and  drove  in 
his  upturned  face,  and  he  laughed  harder  than 
ever.  One  of  the  men,  slicing  bait  on  the  house, 
stabbed  his  knife  into  the  bait-board  and  came 
forward  to  stare  down  at  the  laughing  boy. 
Others  followed  and  stood  in  a  wondering  ring. 
It  was  a  queer  enough  spectacle,  to  be  sure— 
that  slight,  sallow  boy  with  the  big  eyes,  half 
lying  in  the  middle  of  the  sunlit  deck,  laughing 
at  nothing.  The  skipper  stuck  out  his  head, 
aft,  to  utter  his  sinister  prophecy,  "  You  wait— 
I'll  feex  you — pretty  queek,  all  right." 

The  sun  lifted  higher  and  higher  over  the  sky 
line,  the  vessel  lost  the  last  faint  loom  of  the  land 
and  shouldered  on,  hour  after  hour,  into  the  blue 
east.  Anthony  sat  on  that  coil  of  Manila  which 
had  been  his  sleeping-place  and  watched  the 
water  and  the  smooth  yellow  sweep  of  the  main- 

139 


LAND'S  END 

sail,  with  its  rows  of  reefing-points,  like  a  musi 
cian's  fingers  practising  interminable  scales.  He 
was  shaken  by  an  almost  savage  pleasure  in  the 
play  of  color  against  color — the  garish  pattern 
of  men  at  work  about  the  after-house,  wearing 
sweaters  of  green  and  purple  and  orange,  and  the 
copper  of  oil-clothing  welding  the  whole  together. 

And  there  was  the  master  of  the  vessel,  with 
his  derby  hat  turned  green  by  hard  weathers. 
Anthony  recollected  that  it  was  the  master  who 
was  going  to  perform  some  unthinkable  atrocity 
termed  "feexing."  Anthony  was  not  impressed, 
hardly  interested.  He  was  aware  that  the  master 
approached  on  heavy  boots;  that  the  boots 
halted  behind  him;  that  the  staccato  of  knives  on 
the  bait-board  had  ceased.  But  he  continued  to 
scrutinize  the  sky-line  with  interest.  It  was  as 
though  a  high  authority,  ancient  and  irrevocable, 
handed  down  through  generations,  resided  with 
in  him.  So  far  he  had  come  already  from  the 
Wait  maples. 

Still  there  was  no  sound.  Anthony  began  to 
fidget  slightly  on  the  coil.  He  was  not  quite 
so  sure.  The  silence  stretched  out  and  became 
intolerable.  An  abrupt  and  overwhelming  anger 
came  into  Anthony,  not  the  old,  unhealthy 
rancor,  but  the  sort  of  emotion  which  leads  men 
to  break  things  and  be  sorry  afterward.  He 
wheeled  and  flung  out  an  imperious  finger. 

"Well — well — what  do  you  want?" 

The  finger  wavered  and  fell,  quite  limp. 
140 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

"I  deed  not  know — I  am  sorree,  sir.  I — I 
deed  not  know." 

What  in  the  name  of  all  the  ocean's  devils  did 
the  man  not  know?  He  stood  there,  this  huge, 
horrific  fellow,  like  a  boy  kept  in  for  whispering, 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  face  lowered  and 
very  red  where  it  showed  beneath  the  brim  of  his 
hat. 

The  sight  of  him,  so,  gave  Anthony  a  feeling  of 
nausea,  as  though  he  had  caught  a  hoary  phi 
losopher  in  the  act  of  "  tick-tacking  "on  awindow- 
pane.  No,  the  joke  could  not  be  this  man's;  it 
must  belong  to  those  grinning  bodies  aft.  He 
closed  his  mouth  and  opened  it  again  uncertainly. 

"Well,  I  asked  you  what  you  wanted,"  he  said. 

"You — you  weel  not  theenk—  We  are  all 
mad,  thees  summer.  There  eez  no  feesh.  You 
'ear  that  towboat  man?  We  are  all  poor  thees 
summer — no  feesh.  We  crazee — mad.  You  are 
not  hangry — " 

"No.  I  am  hungry."  It  was  just  as  well  to 
carry  the  thing  off. 

"You  weel  heat?  Thees  way,  sir.  Your 
aeener — eet  eez  ready,  sir." 

He  had  not  eaten  since  the  noon  before.  The 
simple  memory  of  the  fact  made  him  so  faint  that 
he  fumbled  the  ladder  as  he  descended  into  the 
forward  quarters.  A  place  for  one  was  set  on  the 
starboard  side  of  the  long  V-shaped  table  swung 
from  the  foot  of  the  foremast — coffee  smoking  in 
a,  thick  cup,  fried  eggs,  bacon,  doughnuts. 


LAND'S  END 

chowder,  pie — a  commander's  portion.  He  had 
never  eaten  so  desperately  in  his  life.  All  the 
time  the  skipper  kept  his  feet,  swaying  at  the 
ladder's  foot  with  the  rhythmical  heavings  of  the 
deck.  His  hands  were  behind  him,  his  eyes  still 
lowered. 

Anthony  swallowed  the  last  of  his  coffee. 

"  Where  are  we  bound  for?"  he  asked  of  the 
mute  figure.  The  man  started  and  grew  red 
again. 

11  'Ome,"  he  said.    "We  go  down-cape  now." 

"Oh!  I  thought  you  were  going  out  to  fish. 
I  wanted  to  see  you  fish." 

The  master  shuffled  his  feet  and  turned  out  the 
palms  of  his  hands  in  huge  abashment.  His  eyes 
wandered  uneasily  over  the  deck-planks. 

"Well,"  he  murmured,  "we — we  usuallee  go 
'ome  firs' — that  eez,  we — "  He  broke  off  at  a 
slight  hissing  note  from  the  galley,  and  stared  in 
that  direction.  Anthony's  eyes  followed.  In  the 
gloom  behind  the  companion-ladder  he  made  out 
dimly  the  figure  of  the  cook,  who  had  left  off 
rattling  his  kettles  at  the  boy's  first  question. 
What  did  it  mean?  He  turned  back  to  the  skip 
per  and  found  his  heavy  face  illuminated  by  a 
sudden,  clumsy  eagerness. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  queer  way. 
"Yes — we  weel  go  feesh.  We  'ave  got  enough 
bait  for  one  set." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  Anthony  said,  with  the  frankest 
sarcasm.  He  was  beginning  to  be  very  tired  of 

142 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

the  game,  and  a  little  angry.     "  Thanks,  very 
much." 

He  was  aware  of  something  whispered  out  of 
the    galley,    like    a    subdued    command.      The 
skipper  moved  nearer  by  one  anxious  step. 
1 1  Where  weel  we  f eesh,  sir?  Eef  you  weel  sat/ 
Anthony  laid  down  his  knife  and  stared  at  the 
man,  his  own  face  an  unhealthy  red.    He  spoke 
very  slowly. 

"Why — you  can  go  to  Jericho,  if  you  think 
best.  Please  don't  mind  me." 

The  master  lifted  his  palms  again,  as  though 
wishing  terribly  that  he  could  understand,  and 
turned  his   distressed  eyes  once  more  to   the 
galley.    Then  the  light  came  back  to  his  face. 
"Ah-h-h — you  mean  Zherico  Ledge." 
Anthony  regarded  him  keenly.     For  the  life 
of  him  he  could  not  pick  a  flaw  in  the  acting  of 
this  lumbering  fellow. 

"Ah,  yes;  Jericho  Ledge — to  be  sure.  Go 
there,  please." 

"But — but  Zherico  Ledge — eet  eez  no  feesh 
there.  Dry.  Dry.  Five  year — seex  year— 
nobodee  been  Zherico  Ledge  for  seex  year. 
No  feesh.  Bad  plaze — 

"All  right,"  Anthony  broke  into  the  dis 
tressed  expostulations  with  a  wave  of  supreme 
indifference.  "Don't  go,  then." 

But  the  skipper's  fingers  were  clutching  after 
him  as  he  scrambled  up  the  ladder:  "All  right- 
all  right — we  go — " 

143 


LAND'S   END 

It  was  after  dark  that  night.  For  a  long  time 
Anthony  had  half  leaned,  half  stood  in  the 
vessel's  stem,  one  arm  thrown  over  the  butt  of 
the  bowsprit,  the  other  pillowing  his  cheek  on 
the  rail.  The  vessel  sailed  free  before  a  westerly 
breeze :  the  bows  lifted  and  fell  with  soft,  showery 
boomings,  the  intervals  varying  slightly  in  dura 
tion,  like  the  breathing  of  a  sleeper  who  dreams. 
Since  the  long  noon  calm  the  schooner  had  held 
this  course,  two  points  under  the  east,  far  to 
the  north  of  the  customary  track.  The  intermi 
nable  reiteration  of  little  noises — the  wash  of 
water,  the  titter  of  reefing-points,  the  monot 
onous  lullaby  of  cordage  humming  windy  scales 
to  the  bucking  of  the  mastheads — all  these  voices 
of  a  vessel  about  her  business  gave  Anthony  a 
sense  of  having  been  there  a  very  long,  long  time, 
drowsing  over  a  stark  sea  under  half  a  moon. 

It  lulled  his  senses  and  untangled  his  spirit 
and  let  his  brain  leave  off  wondering  and  puzzling. 
It  allowed  him  to  remember. 

He  remembered  his  mother,  quite  small  and 
distinct,  like  a  cameo,  as  if  she  had  been  gone  a 
great  many  years.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  really  looked  at  her,  and  it  made  him  wonder 
at  her.  He  wondered  why  she  had  come  out  of 
"behind"  that  day  a  thousand  years  ago  and 
broken  to  pieces  his  bit  of  board  with  its  nails  and 
envelopes.  He  wished  he  knew  why  she  had 
looked  so.  Not  "naturally."  No,  that  was  done 
with.  He  wished  he  knew  what  it  was,  there  in 

144 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

the  east  ahead,  that  made  him  feel  so  queer — 
made  his  elbows  itch  to  be  pulling  at  something. 
He  reached  down  and  tugged  at  a  bight  of  chain- 
cable  looped  through  the  hawse.  Then  he  grew 
very  red  in  the  dark,  for  he  was  making  a  fool  of 
himself.  Some  one  was  standing  behind  him. 

"You  see  that  light,  sir?"  The  figure,  gray 
and  without  feature  in  the  dim  illumination, 
raised  an  arm  toward  the  south.  The  boy  rec 
ognized  the  shadow  who  had  hissed  from  the 
galley.  He  turned  and  squinted  at  the  southern 
sky-line.  A  tiny  spark,  far  and  far  away,  flashed 
for  an  instant  and  was  gone.  Five  seconds,  and 
it  came  again,  and  went. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"HighW  Light.  Over — beeyond — eez  the 
town — 'ome." 

For  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there  was 
silence  between  the  two.  Both  appeared  to 
watch  the  distant  spark,  blinking  its  incorruptible 
periods.  Then  the  cook  spoke,  low,  as  though  to 
himself : 

"Zherico  Ledge.  Yes.  Zherico  Ledge  eez 
w'ere  they  was  lost." 

"Where  who  was  lost?" 

Anthony  was  aware  that  the  other  had  come 
up  quite  close  behind  him,  but  he  did  not  turn. 

"She— she  deedn'  tell  you?" 

"Tell  me  what-     Who?" 

"Your  brothers- 
Anthony's  left  hand  closed  on  the  rail  so  tightly 

10  145 


LAND'S  END 

that  the  knuckles  blued.  He  wheeled  and  stared 
at  the  man's  face.  The  moon,  wan  and  high,  cut 
definite,  blue-gray  pencilings  around  the  skull, 
making  it  appear  fantastic — crooked — as  though 
it  had  been  twisted  with  an  enormous  pair  of 
tweezers.  Something  clucked  in  Anthony's 
throat. 

"What  about  my  brothers?" 

"Your  four  brothers?  They  wen'  down  weeth 
the  Pico — feeshin'  Zherico  Ledge — feefteen  year 
'go.  And  she  deedn't— 

The  boy  broke  in.  His  face,  too,  was  curiously 
carved  in  the  moonlight. 

"My  father — what  about  my  father?  And 
there  was  another  brother.77 

The  cook  did  not  answer  right  away.  He  stood 
silent,  his  head  raised.  Somehow,  out  here,  one 
forgot  that  this  man  had  ever  carried  a  bundle 
along  a  hill-country  road,  with  an  umbrella  of 
dust  to  make  him  disreputable.  One  felt,  some 
how,  that  he  was  a  person  endowed  with  myste 
rious  functions  in  the  machinery  of  destiny — an 
incorrigible  zealot. 

"And — she — deedn't — tell  you,"  he  marveled, 
at  length. 

"No.     Goon." 

"Your  brother,  Gabriel — he  was  nine  year 
old.  Your  father  take  heem  for  a  trip — een  heez 
vessel.  They  went  to  pieces  on  Peaked  Hill  Bars 
—same  gale  lak  your  brothers.  Your  mother 
she  seen  7em  een  the  surf — lash  t'gether.  That's 

146 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

w'en  she  begeen  t'  go  queer,  a  leetle.  She  was 
not  use7  to  eet — an  inland  girl.  She  deedn't 
know." 

It  was  almost  an  hour  later  that  Anthony 
turned  his  head.  The  little  man  with  the  crooked 
head  still  stood  behind  him,  like  a  sentinel. 

"You  go  sleep  now?"  he  asked,  seeing  the 
boy's  motion. 

"Not  yet."  And  something  in  the  attitude  of 
the  man  made  him  add,  "Thank  you." 

"Why  was  it,"  he  said,  turning  again  to  the 
dark  horizon — "why  was  it  you  called  my  father 
a  killer— that  time?" 

"Killer?  Beecause  he  if  as  a  killer.  You  don' 
know.  W'en  any  feeshin'  skeeper  he  take,  ever' 
year,  mush,  mush  feesh,  then  we  call  heem 
'Killer.'  You  deed  not  know.  Some  killer  he 
eez  driver.  Your  father  he  never  driver.  Heez 
men,  they  like  heem  ver'  mush.  An'  heez  father, 
beef  ore  heem,  een  the  islan's.  Beeg  killer — all  the 
Braganas— 

"  Tonybragana!  I  remember  now."  Anthony 
Brown  had  caught  another  word  without  jump 
ing. 

"Tony  Bragana.  Your  father,  Tony  Bragana, 
too.  Heez  father,  Tony  Bragana.  Your  brother 
—first  one — he  Tony  Bragana.  He  dead  beefore 
you  born — that's  why.  There  mus'  be  all  time  a 
Tony  Bragana — the  people  theenk  so.  Tony 
Bragana  always  find  mush  feesh." 

147 


LAND'S  END 

Both  were  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  Anthony 
spoke,  all  of  a  sudden,  as  though  remembering: 
"And  my  brother  Raphul — do  you  know?" 

11  Raphael?  He  come  back  'ere.  He  feesh  een 
the  Flores.  Five  year  'go  he  get  catch  een  main- 
sheet — whoof !"  The  speaker  threw  out  his  hands 
in  a  graphic  gesture  of  finality. 

Anthony  leaned  forward  against  the  rail  and 
pillowed  his  head  in  the  curve  of  his  arm  and 
stared  ahead.  After  a  long  while  he  looked 
around  and  said:  "I  think  I'll  turn  in  now." 

When  Anthony  awoke  it  was  still  dark  against 
the  ports,  but  through  the  open  door  of  the 
skipper's  cubby  where  he  had  slept  he  could  see 
the  bunks  in  the  cabin  empty.  The  dories  had 
gone,  then.  He  got  up  and  climbed  on  deck. 
The  skipper  stood  at  the  wheel,  his  legs  illumi 
nated  by  the  binnacle  lamp,  the  rest  of  him  a 
black  loom  against  the  sky. 

"We  are  there?"  Anthony  questioned.  "How 
is  it?"  He  held  his  breath,  with  an  absurd 
anxiety  for  the  other  to  speak. 

"Wait — wait — we  see,"  whispered  the  silhou 
ette.  His  whispering  so,  without  apparent  need 
for  caution,  cast  a  cloak  of  mystery  over  the 
business — made  it,  without  warning,  a  conspiracy, 
a  stealthy  stratagem. 

The  vessel  lay  hove  to,  riding  under  a  backed 
foresail  and  main,  which  fetched  up  now  and  then 
with  an  abrupt  crashing  of  blocks  and  the  whir 

J48 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

of  sheets  cutting  the  air.  The  swells  rolled, 
monstrous  and  without  luster,  out  of  the  gloom 
ahead,  to  hang  for  an  instant  above  the  slender 
vessel,  then  whirl  it  over  their  shoulders  and  take 
themselves  away  into  the  gloom  once  more. 
Here  and  there  a  crest  spat  into  the  air  like  a  gray 
geyser,  as  though  it  had  been  struck  by  some 
counter-violence.  The  air  carried  an  undertone 
of  these  watery  explosions,  as  if  a  thousand  jets 
were  blowing  steam. 

The  cook  came  aft,  bringing  coffee.  He,  too, 
moved  furtively.  He  murmured  to  the  skipper, 
"Seen  anny  yet?" 

"Too  dark.    Wait — een  a  meenute." 

The  eastern  rim  of  the  horizon  became  gray; 
the  pallor  mounted  by  imperceptible  encroach 
ments  toward  the  zenith,  and  a  band  of  fire  ap 
peared,  low  down.  Far  away  the  silhouette  of  a 
black,  writhing  swell  cut  into  this  flaming  ribbon 
and  disgorged  a  spidery  thing  that  hung  on  its 
summit  for  a  passing  moment.  The  skipper's 
head  thrust  forward  on  its  thick  neck. 

"That  Geral'  an'  Tony  Lee,"  he  said.  And 
the  cook  yelled: 

"Feesh — they  got  feesh!"  He  clapped  his 
hands.  "I  knowed  eet! — I  knowed  eet!  The 
feesh  has  come  back  to  Zherico  Ledge!  See — 
how  low  the  dory  set!" 

But  the  master  only  stared  at  Anthony  with  a 
curious,  half-frightened  light  in  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

149 


LAND'S  END 

Anthony  got  to  his  feet  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down,  driven  by  a  curious  fever.  He  went 
from  one  rail  to  the  other,  straining  his  eyes 
toward  the  waxing  horizons.  The  sides  of  his 
temples  pricked.  An  undulation  of  the  sea 
brought  up  another  dory,  nearer  at  hand,  washing 
its  gunwales.  The  sun  rose. 

The  boats  were  crawling  in  toward  the  vessel 
already,  their  wooden  legs  flashing  in  the  sun  at 
regular  intervals.  One  was  alongside,  whirled 
there  suddenly  out  of  nowhere  on  a  watery  hill 
side  corrugated  with  labyrinthine  channels  of 
spume.  Anthony  ran  to  the  rail  and  stared  down 
at  the  two  sweating  men  who  bellowed  words  he 
could  not  understand,  and  ceased  to  bellow  when 
they  saw  him  over  the  rail,  doffed  their  glistening 
oil-hats,  stood  at  attention.  Their  legs  were 
buried  to  the  thighs  under  their  shining  cargo. 
The  oblique  rays  of  the  sun  appeared  to  draw  in 
from  all  the  corners  of  space  to  immolate  them 
selves  upon  that  seething  altar,  to  shatter  them 
selves  in  vast  chromatic  explosions,  rebound  in 
colored  fragmerts,  and  hang,  an  unutterable  halo 
of  cool  flame,  above  the  swaying  dory. 

Something  turned  over  in  Anthony  Brown's 
brain.  The  halo  seemed  to  have  blinded  him  for 
an  instant.  His  hands  were  working  in  each 
other  as  we  picture  the  hands  of  a  miser  yearning 
over  his  money-bags.  Then  he  was  aware  of  a 
poignant  pleasure  in  his  throat-cords,  as  though 
they  gave  birth  in  ecstatic  labor  to  a  virgin  word : 

150 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

"Bakalhov1 — Bakalhov!"  he  screamed,  and 
clapped  his  hands  and  bathed  them  in  the  irides 
cent  blossom  of  the  air.  "Ah,  Bakalhov! — Muito." 2 

I  will  tell  you  how  I  saw  Anthony  Brown — or 
Tony  Bragana.  I  sat  in  a  little  square  front 
room  with  windows  looking  out  upon  a  narrow, 
climbing  street  of  hardened  sand,  bordered  with 
small  weathered  houses.  Here  and  there  were 
women  with  shawls — red  or  purple  or  intricately 
multicolored — framing  their  dark  and  alien  faces. 
They  gossiped  across  the  fences  in  an  alien  tongue 
strange  on  the  ear  in  this  ancient  Yankee  sea- 
town. 

Within  the  room  another  woman  talked  to  me 
in  the  same  incomprehensible  accents.  She  was  a 
very  old  woman — so  wrinkled  and  gnarled  and 
crouching  that  it  seemed  she  must  have  witnessed 
the  comings  and  goings  of  half  a  dozen  genera 
tions.  Her  head  was  covered  with  a  blue-and- 
gold  neckerchief,  and  she  leaned  her  gaunt  hands 
on  a  stick.  Above  her  on  the  wall  flared  twin 
candles  before  the  pictured  saint  of  Pico,  in  the 
Western  Islands.  All  the  Braganas  were  of  Pico. 
A  girl  of  seventeen  (she  might  have  been  a  great- 
granddaughter)  stood  at  her  side  and  told  me 
what  the  old  woman  said.  It  was  fragmentary — 
the  tale  she  told — gently  meandering,  tinctured 
with  the  strong  dogmatism  of  age;  but  the  girl 
was  very  beautiful. 

2  Many, 
151 


LAND'S  END 

I  turned  my  head  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  Anthony  Brown  standing  where  the 
sandy  hill-street  met  the  sky.  It  seemed  a 
miracle  to  me  that  he  should  be  so  straight,  so 
sure — so  puissant.  Even  as  I  looked  his  right 
hand  gestured  quickly,  as  though  he  gave  an 
order  to  some  one,  invisible  beyond  the  crest, 
perhaps  to  his  crew — yes,  his  crew — blackened 
men  of  twice  and  thrice  his  age,  who  had  followed 
that  other  "killer,"  his  father,  to  the  swimming 
fields  of  fish.  And  he  had  been  so  hard  to  find 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Wait  maples,  this  boy. 

The  young  girl's  voice,  soft  and  modulated, 
penetrated  to  my  consciousness: 

"She  says  she  was  a  queer,  bad  woman — 
Tony's  mother  was.  She  says  after  the  second 
gale  that  took  the  last  of  'em  off,  why  Tony's 
mother  sat  every  night  with  her  windows  open, 
groanin'  and  blubberin'.  And  in  the  daytimes 
she  went  round  tryin'  to  make  folks  promise 
they  wouldn't  tell  Tony  and  his  brother  what 
their  pa  had  been,  because  she  thought  then 
maybe  they  wouldn't  want  to  be.  And  she  says 
everybody  laughed  and  told  her  how  the  baby 
was  Tony  Bragana,  and  she  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  herself,  carrying  on  that  way.  Then  she  says 
you  ought  to  have  seen  her  scowl.  And  one 
night  she's  gone  with  the  babies,  without  saying 
nothing  to  a  soul.  She  says  she  was  a  queer,  bad 
woman,  and — "  The  voice  trailed  into  a  silence 
without  point. 

152 


THE    KILLER'S    SON 

"Tell  her,  for  me,"  I  said,  without  moving  my 
eyes  from  the  boyish  figure  on  the  hill — "tell 
her  for  me — not — bad." 

But  the  girl  did  not  interpret.  I  looked  around 
to  find  her  eyes,  too$  filmed  with  the  inscrutable 
speculations  of  youth,  fixed  upon  Anthony  Brown 
—a  gray-blue  silhouette,  now,  against  the  yellow 
sky  of  evening. 


A  DEVIL  OF  A  FELLOW 

TIE  had  always  been  spoiled,  by  men,  and 
Al  especially  by  women.  Even  in  the  name 
they  called  him  in  Portuguese  Old  Harbor,  down 
cape,  there  was  a  ring  of  irrepressible  triumph — 
"Va  Di!  Va  Di!"— as  it  were,  "a  devil  of  a 
fellow,"  or  ua  gay  bird." 

They  had  been  dead  for  more  than  half  a  year, 
he  and  Stiff  Peter — dead,  that  is,  in  the  knowledge 
of  the  home  world.  And  as  befitting  one  out  of 
the  unknown,  he  returned  more  magnificent  than 
ever,  stepping  down  the  fruit  steamer's  plank  at 
the  Boston  dock  dressed  in  a  suit  of  cream-colored 
flannels  gotten  in  the  tropics,  between  which  and 
the  pale  block  of  the  Panama  hat  above,  his  face 
showed  more  than  ever  swarthy,  rich-toned,  and 
clean-drawn,  with  its  crisp  black  spurs  of  mus 
tache  breaking  the  line  of  either  cheek,  like  a 
brigand  on  a  poster.  In  his  right  hand  he  poised 
a  slender  cane,  something  he  had  learned  in  Port 
au  Prince.  Stiff  Peter  came  behind,  carrying 
the  new  straw  suitcase,  clothed  himself  in  much 
the  same  sort  of  shoddy  in  which  he  and  his 

captain  had  been  picked  up  from  the  fisherman's 

154 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

wreckage,  seven  months  before,  by  a  southward- 
going  tramp.  Stiff  Peter  was  a  small  fellow; 
he  had  to  look  up  to  Va  Di;  had  he  had  to  look 
down  to  Va  Di  the  world  would  have  been  quite 
inexplicable. 

The  pair  stood  outside  the  dock  gates,  staring 
about  them  at  the  heavy  summer  city,  the 
venders  of  colored  fruits,  the  hot  blue  Elevated 
trains  thundering  overhead,  the  ice-carts  sweat 
ing  long,  cold  threads  across  the  cobbles. 

"Here's  the  country  fer  you,  eh,  Peter?" 

Peter  nodded,  showing  his  bad  teeth.  "Bet- 
cha!" 

The  master  pointed  the  tips  of  his  mustache 
and  smiled  easily  at  a  passing  shop-girl.  "Say, 
Peter,  I  a'most  wisht  now  I  didn't  send  that 
letter  home.  Be  some  sport,  now,  coming  ashore 
into  Old  Harbor,  like  a — miracle." 

"Betcha!"  The  little  fellow  grinned,  thinking 
that  would  have  been  fine.  "I  wisht  you  didn't, 
either,"  he  echoed.  The  fact  that  Peter  himself 
had  sent  the  letter,  Va  Di  never  having  learned 
to  read  or  write,  did  not  obtrude  itself  upon 
either  of  them.  Peter  waited  patiently,  eyes  on 
the  cobbles. 

"Well,  Peter,  we'll  see  a  night  afore  we  go 
down  home,  anyhow.  Wonder  who'll  be  to 
Schlinsky's?  Them  boys  off  the  fleet  '11  be 
tickled  to  see  me." 

"Betcha!" 

Outside  Schlinsky's  place  they  were  confronted 

155 


LAND'S   END 

by  a  slovenly  jointed  man  whose  little,  red- 
rimmed  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  at  ghosts. 

" Thousand  devils!"  the  fellow  gasped  in  his 
long  throat. 

Va  Di  straightened  the  left  lapel  of  his  coat 
and  flicked  a  damp  curl  from  his  forehead.  No 
one  enjoyed  this  sort  of  thing  more  than  he. 

" Hello,  Costa!  How's  fishin' — good?  Any 
the  boys  done  good  this  year?" 

"But  for  Gawd's  s-a-k-e!"  Costa  stretched 
out  an  absurdly  long  finger  to  touch  the  flannel 
stuff.  "And  is  that  Stiff  Peter?"  His  eyes 
wabbled  about  in  a  grotesque  fashion.  "Say, 
you  fellahs  is  drowned!" 

He  closed  his  eyes  tight  and  mopped  the  sweat 
from  his  brow  with  the  back  of  a  wrist.  "I  was 
onto  the  Arbitrator  myself  las'  fall  when  she 
picked  up  your  wreckage.  Me  and  Tony  Silva 
catched  a  dory-load  o'  corpses  ourselves.  The 
hull  o'  you's  got  good  granite  stones  up  to  the 
graveyard.  And  here  you  come  tackin'  up  to  me 
in  broad  daylight."  He  popped  his  eyes  very 
suddenly  at  the  conclusion,  as  if  to  give  nature  a 
chance. 

"And  you  never  knowcd?"  Va  Di  demanded, 
losing  his  dramatic  composure. 

"Knowed  w/ia^" 

"Knowed  we  was  picked  up,  me  and  Peter, 
and  took  to  Brazil." 

Costa  shook  his  head  uneasily,  still  a  little 
suspicious  of  them. 

156 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

"But  looky  here,  didn't —  Who  was  it  I  sent 
that  letter  to,  Peter?  Mamie  Cabral?  Say, 
man,  didn't  Mamie  get  no  letter  offa  me?  Eh?" 

"N-n-naw."  Costa's  face  changed  abruptly 
from  pale  brown  to  brick  color  and  his  unman 
ageable  fingers  fussed  with  his  beard.  "  Mamie's 
went— " 

"Went?     Went  where?" 

"Nowheres.    Only  she  went  an'  got  married." 

"Got  married?" 

"Got  married." 

"Onto  who?" 

"Onto  that  old  storekeep,  Henny  Lake — you 
know." 

"Old  Henny  Lake  with  the  crooked  leg? 
Looky  here,  Costa- 
Costa  backed  away  a  step,  licked  his  lips, 
fumbled  uneasily  in  and  out  of  his  pockets,  and 
after  a  moment  spoke  in  a  voice  unnecessarily 
loud: 

"Come  on  up  an'  have  a  drink,  Va  Di,  old 
fellah."  He  slapped  the  other  on  the  back, 
crying:  "There's  other  fish  into  the  water, 
man!" 

"You  go  straight  to  hell!" 

Va  Di  stood  for  a  long  time  after  Costa  had 
retreated  up  the  stairway,  scowling  into  the 
yellow  sun  of  evening,  his  teeth  playing  with  his 
nether  lips,  his  hands  tormenting  the  frail 
Malacca. 

"They — they's,  other  fish  into  the  water,'1 
157 


LAND'S  END 

Peter  stammered,  desperate  to  shift  the  great 
man's  humor.  Va  Di  wheeled  with  out-flung 
hands. 

"Other  fish!  Well,  I  guesso.  Mary  Virgin! 
but  I  got  a  dozen  girls  in  town,  right  here,  better 
Jn  that  run-around  slut  that  jumps  after  an  old 
man's  money  the  minute  I  get  out  o'  sight.  Fish? 
I  guesso!  Come  on  up,  Stiff  Peter.  I'll  show 
'em." 

He  mounted  the  dusty  stairs,  with  Peter 
sweating  after  him,  and  in  the  wide,  many- 
tabled  hall  of  the  Jew,  heavy  with  the  arid  lush- 
ness  of  a  summer  night  in  the  city,  he  drank  him 
self  into  a  heroic  insensibility,  so  that  he  had  to 
be  carried  away  to  dark  T  Wharf,  in  the  willing 
hands  of  the  fish  fleet,  and  dumped  aboard  a 
schooner  bound  down  on  the  morning  tide  for  the 
end  of  the  Cape. 

They  opened  the  town  around  Long  Point,  a 
straggling  arc  of  infinitesimal  houses  and  wharves 
and  spires,  all  colored  alike  in  the  sulphur  fires  of 
sunset,  with  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  clear  flame 
refracted  from  a  window-pane,  a  whole  broadside 
from  the  cold-storage  in  the  western  sands. 

"Seven  month,"  Peter  mused,  an  eye  corner- 
wise  on  the  silent  man  beside  him  in  the  bows. 
"Seven  month;  and  it's  like  yiste'day — er  mebby 
ten,  twenty  year,  lookin'  at  it  another  way,  eh, 
Cap'n?" 

"They'll  be  took  aback,"  Va  Di  muttered, 

rousing  himself  from   his  sour  preoccupation. 

158 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  the  Silvado  girls  to-night, 
Peter.  You  watch  their  faces,  now.  Fish  into 
the  water — I  guesso."  He  fell  into  another 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  faint  rustle  of  the 
cutwater  and  the  tiny  crescendo  of  men's  voices 
as  the  bow  gang  straggled  forward  to  make  the 
anchor  ready.  The  fleet  at  mooring  drifted 
nearer,  spiring  purple  on  a  mat  of  pellucid  gold. 

"I  see  Maya's  shifted  his  offshore  trap," 
Peter  struggled  patiently. 

The  tide  was  low  when  the  dories  came  ashore, 
leaving  a  wide  stretch  of  flats,  soggy,  half- 
reflecting.  Two  of  the  crew,  to  tell  of  it  after 
ward,  carried  Va  Di  on  their  shoulders  and  saved 
his  white  shoes  from  the  wet,  their  own  boots 
leaving  tiny  lakes  behind,  full  of  yellow  sky.  A 
bare-legged  girl  with  a  clam-rake  in  her  hand 
turned  curiously  as  she  crossed  in  front  of  them, 
opened  her  eyes  wider,  ran  away  blushing  richly, 
the  damp  skirts  flinging  about  her  knees. 

Va  Di  called  after  her:  " Ai  there,  you  Angie! 
You  watch  out  for  me." 

People  began  to  come  out  on  the  stranded 
wharves;  some  padded  across  the  flats,  hallooing 
to  one  another.  At  the  "rising,"  Va  Di  kicked 
to  be  let  down,  and  stood  with  the  great  hat  held 
dramatically  across  his  breast,  watching  the 
townspeople  converging  upon  him.  A  party  of 
summer  visitors  from  the  East  End  passed  in  a 
motor ;  one  of  them,  a  handsome  woman  of  forty 
or  so,  smiled  amusedly  at  the  figure,  flushed  and 

159 


LAND'S  END 

tightened  her  lips  as  she  found  her  smile  returned 
with  a  shocking  candor,  made  to  pluck  her 
companion's  sleeve,  thought  better  of  it,  lowered 
her  eyes  to  her  lap,  and  so  whirled  on  into 
nothingness. 

"Le5  me  alone/'  Va  Di  cried  with  a  sudden 
ferocity.  ''Peter,  gi'  me  that  dress-suit  case." 
Grasping  the  shiny  thing  he  wheeled  and  strode 
away  into  the  mouth  of  a  lane,  leaving  lips  and 
eyes  wondering  behind  him. 

The  day  died  very  suddenly  now.  Passing 
beneath  the  willows  that  hung  out  of  Ma  Deutra's 
chicken-pen,  it  was  almost  night  already,  cool 
and  struck  through  with  the  acrid  fetor  of  the 
roots;  and  when  he  came  out  beyond,  the  world's 
color  had  changed  perceptibly,  its  passion  chilled 
by  the  faint  white  influence  of  the  moon.  Turn 
ing  into  the  back  street,  he  paused  before  a  small 
weathered  building  with  "  Henry  Lake,  Mer 
chandise  &  Provisions"  lettered  across  the  false 
front. 

"Shut  up  a'ready,"  he  mused,  with  a  hard- 
won  sneer.  "Stays  home  of  evenin's  now — the 
old  bastard.  I'll  wring  his  dried-up  neck— - 
You  watch." 

He  moved  on  again,  smoothing  out  his  coat- 
folds  and  tipping  the  Panama  further  back  and 
to  the  side,  for  he  had  to  pass  the  house  now. 
The  perfectly  inexplicable  thing  was  that  he 
should  find  himself  so  upset  over  Mamie  Cabral— 
Mamie  Cabral — a  good-enough  girl,  but  ...  He 

160 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

walked  along  the  white  pickets  of  the  fence, 
shoulders  squared  back,  heartrending  chin  thrust 
forward  in  a  heroic  preoccupation,  eyes  fastened 
on  the  moon  where  Fergus's  willows  chopped  it 
into  ragged  white  fragments.  But,  somehow,  he 
could  not  get  past  the  gate;  he  faltered  there, 
set  down  the  suitcase,  and  leaned  his  elbows  on 
the  posts. 

Through  all  the  years  of  his  boyhood  he  had 
played  around  that  house  of  Lake's;  later  he  had 
stalked  past  it  going  to  or  from  his  various 
vessels.  And  yet  he  could  not  have  told  any  one 
definitely  what  it  looked  like.  He  retained  a  dim 
impression  of  a  grape-vine,  that  was  all.  Now 
he  looked  at  it  for  the  first  time  with  eyes  of 
interest,  intense  glowering  interest.  The  vine, 
shooting  thick  and  rough  from  the  ground  near 
the  front  door  and  sprawling  haphazard  over  the 
dimming  whiteness  of  the  walls  till  it  came  to  the 
semi-restraint  of  a  pergola,  touched  the  man's 
ponderous  imagination  and  made  him  think  of  a 
snake,  or  a  kind  of  guardian  dragon. 

"And  them  two  are  in  there,"  he  mumbled  to 
himself.  "Into  the  dark."  He  leaned  still  more 
heavily  on  the  gate-post,  his  garments  melting 
into  the  luminous  streak  of  the  fence,  his  dark, 
working  face  invisible  against  a  further  hedge, 
only  that  monstrous  exotic  bloom  of  a  hat  hang 
ing  in  the  dusk,  air-sustained 

"Tony!    Oh— Oh,  Tony  Va  Di!" 

The  low  cry  came  from  the  side  of  the  house 
11  161 


LAND'S  END 

where  a  bay  window  sheltered  beneath  the  vine- 
strangled  pergola.  Va  Di  stood  up  rigid,  leaning 
slightly  backward  as  if  before  a  blow,  his  tongue 
running  over  his  lips.  He  muttered,  "Name  of 
God!" 

The  cry  repeated  itself,  half  in  appeal,  half 
ecstatic. 

"Ton'!    Ton'!" 

Opening  the  gate,  careless  now  of  who  might 
see  or  hear  him,  he  strode  along  the  nasturtium- 
bordered  walk  and  stood  beneath  the  pergola, 
staring  at  the  window  slightly  above  the  level 
of  his  head. 

She  was  kneeling  inside,  so  that  no  more  than 
her  head  was  visible  against  the  interior  darkness, 
and  her  forearms  crossed  on  the  sill,  bare  and 
brown  and  sweetly  modeled.  The  last  dim 
effulgence  of  the  sunset  warmed  her  right  cheek, 
the  other  was  chilled  by  the  waxing  power  of  the 
moon — like  the  two  phases  of  a  man's  passion. 
Neither  seemed  to  have  any  words,  save  those 
scared,  triumphant  articulations  of  their  eyes. 
So  they  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  long  time,  while 
the  knotted  shadows  of  the  vine  established 
themselves  upon  the  ground  and  the  house-side, 
austere  and  grotesque. 

A  slow  bewilderment  took  hold  of  Va  Di; 
something  began  to  flutter  in  the  back  of  his 
brain,  an  intolerable,  weightless  thudding,  and 
the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated  curiously.  He 
could  not  understand.  He  had  an  instinctive 

162 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

desire  to  huddle  down  or  to  turn  and  run  away, 
as  a  coral-islander  might  feel,  put  down  miracu 
lously  in  the  midst  of  the  Himalayas. 

"  Where — where  is  he?"  he  whispered,  by 
and  by. 

"He's  dead,  Tony." 

"Dead!" 

"Three  days,  Ton'." 

The  man  took  off  his  hat  and  stared  into  it; 
vaguely  astonished  at  a  jewel  shining  on  the 
brim,  he  raised  his  hand  to  find  tears  rolling  out 
of  his  eyes.  He  had  an  almost  uncontrollable 
impulse  to  pray. 

"Old  Lake's  dead,"  he  echoed  in  a  shallow, 
vacant  voice.  Sluggish  visions  tumbled  through 
his  mind  as  he  stared  at  Mamie's  dark,  un- 
moving  eyes. 

"Wha'— what  was  ailin'  of  him?" 

"I  killed  him." 

The  air  about  the  open  window  grew  dank  and 
old,  shot  with  a  faint  reek  of  never-opened  rooms, 
unaired  wall-paper,  crumbs  of  funeral  cakes  and 
spilled  wine,  and  a  memory  hanging  about  it  of 
withered  old  dead  limbs.  Va  Di  shrank  back  till 
his  shoulders  touched  an  upright  of  the  pergola. 
His  face  was  yellow  in  the  half-light  and  one 
yellow  finger  scratched  a  cross  on  his  breast. 

1 '  You — y-y-y  ou— 

"I  killed  him,  Ton'— after  I  got  your  letter." 

If  she  would  take  her  eyes  away  for  an  instant, 

then  he  could  run. 

163 


LAND'S  END 

"You— got  it— then?" 

She  nodded  slowly. 

"I  didn't  tell  nobody.  Why?  I  don't  know, 
Ton'.  But  then  I  prayed  to  all  the  saints  that  he 
would  die,  and  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  even  to 
Christ  Hisself — and  three  days  ago  he  fell  off 
Maya's  wharf  and  drownded.'; 

"O-o-oh!"  It  was  not  tears  now  that  wet  his 
cheeks,  but  sweat,  released  suddenly  from  its 
pores.  "They  can't  git — you — for — that." 

"They  can't.     They  can't.    No.    But—" 

For  all  the  frightful,  occult  implication  of  her 
words,  her  eyes  were  still  level  and  unfrightened, 
full  of  a  deep,  transfigured  calm.  Va  Di  could 
not  live  up  to  that;  without  ceasing  he  crossed 
himself  and  looked  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
as  though  fearful  of  beholding  in  that  moon- 
checkered  nook  the  form  of  a  black,  relentless 
priest. 

"Oh,  Ton'!"  she  called,  softly.  He  had  to 
look  at  her,  and  even  the  cold  exhalations  of  the 
night  light  could  not  kill  the  color  sweeping  her 
cheeks.  He  became  aware  of  her  hand  reaching 
out  to  him,  wavering  close  before  him;  heedless  of 
all  things  else,  earthly  and  unearthly,  he  took  it 
in  his  own  and  turned  it  over  and  kissed  the  palm 
—kissed  it  over  and  over  again  till  it  smothered 
him. 

"Mamie!"  he  cried,  searching  her  face  with  his 
reckless  eyes.  "You're  mine,  ain't  you,  Mame? 

Ain't  you?"    He  came  nearer  and  stood  on  tiptoe 

164 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

to  draw  down  her  lips,  but  she  went  white  at  that 
and  pulled  back,  fluttering  her  free  hand  over  her 
bosom. 

"Ton'— Ton'!  Don't!  I— I  ain't— smart- 
Tony." 

He  stood  perfectly  quiet  for  a  moment,  as  if 
struck  there  in  stone  by  a  flash  of  some  Medusa- 
head.  After  a  time,  becoming  aware  that  he  still 
held  the  girl's  hand  in  his,  he  let  it  drop  abruptly. 
He  began  working  his  lips,  as  if  they  were  stiff 
from  long  disuse.  His  face  was  yellow  and  hard. 

"The  hell  you  say!" 

Turning  away,  he  walked  around  the  corner 
of  the  house,  a  singular  woodenness  in  his  knees. 
But  he  returned  immediately  to  lean  against  the 
upright  and  confront  her  with  his  blighted  rancor. 

"  You  didn't  waste  no  time,  did  you?" 

She  did  not  appear  to  have  grasped  it  yet. 
Once  again  he  flung  off  around  the  corner,  and 
this  time  he  did  not  return. 

When  he  came  into  his  own  lane,  gated  with 
clumpy  willows  and  at  the  further  end  fading  out 
into  the  blue-white  slope  of  a  dune  dotted  with 
rubbish,  he  saw  that  the  news  had  run  ahead  of 
him  and  all  the  neighborhood  was  out  of  doors 
in  the  dusty  thoroughfare,  shouting,  sobbing, 
squealing.  His  mother  lunged  forward  at  sight  of 
him,  an  old,  ragged-haired  woman,  full  of  fecund 
years,  tripping  over  the  torn  hem  of  her  skirt. 

Va  Di  glowered  at  her,  holding  her  off  with  his 
strong  hands.  She  had  been  handsome  once 

165 


LAND'S  END 

too;  even  now  there  were  fine  foundation-lines 
which  the  folds  of  her  cheeks,  red  and  rutted  like 
a  rooster's  wattles,  could  not  altogether  hide. 

"Ma!"  he  cried,  of  a  sudden.  "Ma,  I'm  back." 
Folding  her  in  his  arms,  he  patted  her  back  with 
a  rough  tenderness,  and  wept.  Then  all  the 
others,  who  had  come  pattering,  fell  to  weeping 
and  screeching  and  pounding  him  on  the  back. 
They  got,  finally,  into  the  house,  a  bleak,  tall, 
narrow  structure  with  peeling  clapboards  without 
and  a  pervasion  of  linoleum  within;  into  the 
kitchen,  full  of  all  the  essentials  of  life,  a  stove, 
a  pump,  a  lithograph  of  the  Virgin,  a  mahogany 
wardrobe  leaking  cornmeal  and  onions,  a  phono 
graph,  cot-bed,  chairs,  and  a  table. 

Eight  brothers  and  sisters  had  to  be  heard;  a 
ninth  came  running  in  from  her  husband's  house 
up-street,  her  stolid  velocity  not  in  the  least 
hampered  by  the  protuberance  under  her  shawl, 
understood  to  be  a  nursing  infant,  miraculously 
adhesive. 

"You'll  git  the  house  painted,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  hint  of  severity,  to  Angelina,  seventeen, 
and  in  high  school. 

"  Yeh."  Angelina  had  thought  of  that  herself, 
having  callers. 

His  mother  busied  herself  in  an  oily  nimbus 
above  the  stove,  frying  a  linguisa  and  other 
things,  watching  her  first-born  all  the  while  with 
convulsive  tremors  about  her  mouth  which  made 
her  appear  to  grin,  at  intervals,  idiotically. 

166 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

Va  Di  pounded  the  red  table-cloth  with  the  butt 
of  his  knife. 

"Ma,  git  a  move  onto  that.  'Ain't  I  told  you 
I'm  hungry?" 

"Well,  ain't  I  hurryin'?"  The  old  woman 
made  the  linguisa  crackle  by  poking  it  with  a 
knife. 

Va  Di  rubbed  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his 
lips  and  justified  himself.  "Well,  I'm  hungry." 

He  ate  in  silence,  only  once  raising  his  voice, 
and  his  hands,  to  bid  the  company  be  quiet. 
"You  make  me  nervous,"  he  cried.  After  he  had 
finished  he  got  up  and  dusted  the  crumbs  off  his 
fine  clothes,  scratching  an  old  spot  with  a  thumb 
nail  and  rubbing  it  with  his  coat-cuff,  ran  a  hand 
through  his  straight,  black  hair,  and  lounged  to 
the  front  door.  His  mother  called  after  him, 
with  a  curious  cluck  in  her  voice. 

"Where  you  goin',  son?" 

"Aw,  see  the  town." 

But  he  got  no  farther  than  the  step  to  the 
gate,  where  he  leaned  on  his  elbows  and  gloomed 
at  the  roofs  across  the  lane.  Curious  ones 
passed,  turned  back,  cleared  their  throats,  and, 
seeing  his  face,  did  not  speak. 

"A  kid,"  he  mumbled  in  his  throat.  "A  kid 
off  o'  that  crooked-legged  old  sow."  And  after 
another  sour  silence:  "I  never  remembered 
what  a  good-looker  she  was.  Say!  And  crazy 
about  me.  But  ...  Hell!" 

The  moon  swam  high  over  the  end  of  the  lane, 

167 


LAND'S  END 

filling  the  dusty  passage  with  its  effulgent  silver. 
The  clear  notes  of  town  hall  telling  eleven 
floated  across  the  huddled  dwellings,  and  Va  Di, 
wondering  at  the  hour,  looked  about  to  find 
all  the  windows  dark  in  the  lane,  save  one  toward 
the  street  end  where  a  mandolin  twinkled  an 
Island  melody.  A  solitary  figure  moved  in  the 
vista,  coming  nearer,  a  girl,  dark-faced  and  with 
her  dark  hair  piled  on  either  side  of  her  ears,  wear 
ing  a  white  linen  skirt  and  a  crimson  sweater. 
Opposite  Va  Di's  gate  she  paused  to  kick  a  twig 
lying  in  the  dust  and  discovered  the  man  with  a 
slight  start. 

"I  heard  you're  back,"  she  said,  drifting  easily 
nearer.  "Glad  t'  see  you." 

The  man  smoothed  his  mustache.  "Hullo, 
Mary!  Didn't  Aspect  to  see  me  again,  eh,  girlie? 
How's  things?" 

"Lookin'  up,  now."  She  leaned  against  the 
other  side  of  the  fence,  smiling  and  fussing  idly 
with  her  hair,  her  eyes  lowered  demurely.  By 
and  by  she  raised  them,  nonplussed  by  his  failure 
to  go  on,  and  found  him  staring  at  the  sky  as  if 
he  had  forgotten  she  was  there.  She  drifted 
away,  after  a  time,  flinging  her  shoulders  a  little, 
and  once  looking  back  with  a  wounded,  malignant 
expression. 

Va  Di  shook  himself  and  stared  after  her, 
moved  by  a  faint  sensation  of  regret.  "I  must  be 
turnhV  foolish,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  she  was  coming 
168 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

back,  and  straightened  up  with  a  not  unac 
countable  thrill.  But  then  he  sank  down  again, 
recognizing  old  Baldy  Minn  by  a  faint  flapping 
of  soles,  many  sizes  too  large  for  her,  on  the  dust. 
Baldy  Minn  had  a  wide,  gelatinous  person,  for 
ever  billowing  and  breaking  against  the  pre 
carious  dams  of  her  clothing  when  she  moved 
about;  a  silky  gray  beard  blurred  the  contour  of 
her  chin;  her  small  eyes  floated  in  a  brownish 
liquor,  prying,  inquisitorial,  continually  sus 
picious  of  women's  figures,  seeming  to  say: 
"Mmmm — so  you're  at  it  again.  Don't  lie 
about  it,  because  you  can't  fool  me."  A  most 
horrible  old  woman.  She  came  flapping  through 
the  moonlight  and  stopped  in  front  of  the  gate. 

"Ai,  ai!"  she  greeted,  in  a  strong,  bubbly 
voice.  "They  telled  me  you're  back,  Va  Di. 
Too  much  f  the  devil,  was  y'u?  Well,  blessed 
saints  take  pity  onto  the  maids,  if  they's  any 
lef.  .  .  .  Isy'rmaup?" 

"I  dunno."  Va  Di  was  a  little  afraid  of  this 
woman,  and  disliked  her  accordingly.  "I'll  take 
a  look,"  he  mumbled,  after  enduring  her  eyes 
for  a  moment.  He  turned  to  the  door  and  called : 
"Ma!  Hey  there,  ma!" 

A  sudden  faint  crash  sounded  from  the  other 
end  of  the  house,  as  if  some  one  had  started  out 
of  a  doze  and  knocked  something  over. 

"Huh,  Tony!    That  you,  Tony?" 

"A'right,"  Va  Di  grumbled.  "You  c'n  go  in, 
Baldy  Minn.  .  .  .  Say — "  He  peered  at  the 

169 


LAND'S  END 

bundle  swinging  in  her  hand,  an  old  shawl  full 
and  exuding  ragged  ends  of  things.  "Say,  what 
you  want,  this  time  o'  night?" 

The  old  crone  turned  within  the  entry  and 
winked  a  leering  eye.  "That  big  kittle  o'  y'r 
ma's/'  she  bubbled. 

"Oh!  0-o-oh,  I  git  y'u!  Who  is  it  this  time, 
Baldy  Minn?" 

The  woman  grinned  and  flapped  a  hand  at 
him  with  a  horrible  coyness. 

"None  o'  your  beezness,  ara/how." 

After  a  time,  driven  by  an  unaccountable 
restlessness,  he  moved  into  the  house,  felt  his 
way  softly  along  a  wall,  and  stood  in  what  had 
been  meant  for  the  dining-room.  The  air  was 
heavy  and  sour  with  the  sleeping  of  the  three 
younger  boys,  but  the  door  was  open  a  crack 
into  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  lean,  bright  aperture 
he  could  see  Baldy  Minn's  face  with  all  its  dew 
laps  shivering. 

"I  knowed  it  all  along,"  she  was  saying.  "I 
knowed  she'd  never  carry  it — ugh-ugh — not  outa 
that  old  crook-leg." 

The  boards  groaned  ever  so  slightly  beneath 
Va  Di's  heels. 

His  mother's  voice  came  through  the  crack, 
heavy  with  the  burden  of  ages. 

"I've  hear  of  seven-monthers  livinV 

"I  kep'  one  myself."  The  midwife's  lips 
sucked  in  and  exploded  with  a  suggestion  of 
defiance.  "Mis'  Deutra  claims  she  kep'  one 

170 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

oncet,  but  she  never.  Sam  Raphael's  boy's  a 
seven-monther  an'  7  kep'  him,  an'  don'  you  let 
nobody  tell  y'u  diff'nt,  Annie.  .  .  .  But  a  six- 
monther — ugh-ugh.  No." 

Va  Di's  mother  had  borne  sixteen  and  brought 
up  ten.  He  heard  her  now,  moaning  gently 
through  her  apron:  "Well,  well,  I  don't  know — 
I  don't  know.  ...  I  go  'long  with  you,  Baldy 
Minn.  Poor  thing!  Poor  thing!  I  put  my 
shawl,  go  'long  with  you,  Baldy  Minn." 

"Naw;  ain't  no  need,  Annie.  I  got  Angie 
Bragg  up  there  now,  an'  Rosie  Courier's  there, 
anyhow.  Gimme  the  kittle.  She  ought  to  be 
comin'  'long  now.  Rosie  come  down  two  hour 
ago."  She  stood  for  a  moment  ringing  the  huge 
kettle  with  a  thumb-nail.  "  Won'er  what  started 
her  up.  She  'ain't  fell  or  nothin'  I  hear  of. 
Well  .  .  ." 

She  flapped  away  along  the  dark  hall,  not  a 
yard  from  the  silent  man,  humming  and  bubbling 
between  her  gums.  There  was  a  long  hush, 
broken  only  by  the  snores  of  the  sleepers  and  the 
continuous,  subdued  moaning  from  the  kitchen, 
like  the  chant  of  a  vigil.  Va  Di  went  out  as 
softly  as  he  had  come  in,  and  stood  by  the  gate, 
fanning  his  face  with  the  big  hat. 

"Damn!"  he  mumbled.  And  after  a  moment, 
"  'Tain't  none  o'  my  fun'ral,  though." 

Putting  the  hat  on  his  head,  he  opened  the 
gate,  turned  aimlessly  toward  the  back  country, 
and  mounted  the  clear,  blue  slope  of  the  dune, 

171 


LAND'S   END 

picking  his  way  mechanically  among  the  scattered 
tomato-cans  and  disemboweled  bedticks  and 
skeletons  of  barrels.  Sitting  down  on  the  crest, 
he  became  part  of  it,  moon-colored  and  still. 
The  night  was  so  intolerably  quiet  that  the 
ground-swell  eating  the  beaches  far  off  on  the 
outside  crept  in  to  him,  and  he  ruffled  the  sand 
with  his  feet  because  it  made  him  think  of  his 
mother's  moaning  and  her  words:  "Poor  thing! 
Poor  thing!" 

"God!  how  that  girl  looked  at  me!"  he  re 
membered  out  loud.  ' '  She  1-1 — ' ' 

He  jumped  up  and  shuffled  around;  rolled  a 
cigarette,  wetting  it  too  much  with  his  tongue 
so  that  it  fell  apart;  threw  it  away.  "She 
l-l-loves  me,"  he  came  out,  more  racked  by  the 
word  than  ever  a  child  by  his  virgin  oath. 

He  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  dune  on  the 
other  side,  his  canvas  shoes  sucking  up  moisture 
from  a  bog.  He  climbed  another  hill,  drawn 
back  toward  the  town,  and  waded  across  it  knee- 
deep  in  scrub  and  wild  roses  that  tore  triangular 
rents  in  his  flannel  trousers.  Descending  into  the 
shadow  of  familiar  trees,  he  hunched  himself  up 
to  sit  on  the  shingles  of  a  pigsty,  and  heard  the 
sluggish  animals,  whose  distant  forebears  he  had 
beaten  with  furtive  barrel-staves,  grunt  and  roll 
over  in  the  interior  muck. 

He  took  out  his  knife  and  whittled  the  shingles, 
trying  not  to  look  at  the  house.  There  was  some 
thing  incredibly  fearful  about  its  being  awake  in 

172 


A    DEVIL    OF    A    FELLOW 

the  midst  of  all  the  sleepers,  staring  him  down 
with  its  lighted  windows,  profligate  of  kerosene 
and  tallow.  The  kitchen  door  was  open ;  by  and 
by  a  woman  came  and  leaned  in  the  bright 
rectangle,  a  silhouette  of  fatigue.  This  was 
Rosie  Courier.  She  had  been  old  Henny  Lake's 
housekeeper  as  long  as  Va  Di  could  remember. 
Sometimes  she  had  served  in  the  store.  Va  Di 
could  think  of  her,  immensely  tall  and  tight- 
garmented,  behind  the  counter,  her  lean,  brown 
face  with  its  cheek-cords  pressing  in  the  corners 
of  her  mouth,  hovering  over  his  head,  righteous 
and  suspicious.  Quite  invisible  as  he  was  in  the 
shadow,  he  could  not  keep  from  cringing  a  little 
against  the  roof  as  she  stood  there  in  the  door 
way,  breathing  and  resting. 

Town  hall  clanged  a  single  note,  full  and 
round,  and  as  if  in  answer  another  note  came 
and  hung  among  the  leaves,  a  high,  unmodulated 
animal-cry,  torn  carelessly  from  the  tissues  of  a 
throat.  The  austere  silhouette  in  the  doorway 
straightened  and  disappeared. 

"O,  my  God!"  Va  Di  breathed.  As  a  boy  he 
had  always  been  sent  to  play  with  neighbor 
children  on  those  days  when  brothers  or  sisters 
accrued  to  his  family,  and  so  he  did  not  know. 
He  had  supposed  he  knew;  he  had  had  a  leg 
broken  once  by  a  jibing  boom,  and  he  had  seen 
plenty  of  men  crushed  or  torn  in  the  bad  seconds 
of  ocean  fishing.  But  they  had  always  screamed 
like  human  beings. 

173 


LAND'S  END 

The  distracted  ululation  was  in  the  trees  again. 

"Don't,"  the  man  whispered.  "For  Christ's 
sake,  M-a-m-i-e — d-o-n't!" 

He  got  down  and  tried  to  walk  away,  but  found 
himself  back  again,  leaning  his  crossed  arms  on 
the  sty  roof.  He  had  to  be  doing  something,  to 
dull  the  blade  of  that  outcry,  and  so  he  made  up 
an  unearthly  anger  at  those  shadows  moving 
against  the  window-squares. 

"Damn  you  to  hell!'7  he  mumbled,  shaking  his 
white  fist.  "Why  don't  y'u  do  somethin'?  Why 
don't  y'u  do  somethin'?" 

He  was  aware  of  Baldy  Minn's  figure  flapping 
out  of  the  door,  a  yawling  cat  held  at  arm's 
length.  He  watched  her  slay  the  little  beast, 
make  some  horrible  business  with  a  kitchen  knife, 
and  flap  into  the  house  again  with  the  warm  liver. 
He  knew  well  enough  that  this  would  soothe  the 
sufferer  a  little,  tied  with  a  cord  around  her  neck, 
but  he  became  more  than  ever  furious  at  the 
shadowy  transaction.  He  did  not  want  Mamie's 
agony  allayed  a  little;  he  wanted  it  stopped, 
definitely  and  forever.  He  stood  up  and  bawled 
after  the  retreating  midwife:  "Ow!  Ow!  Ow!" 
Baldy  Minn  turned  and  peered  into  the  night, 
wondering,  shook  the  fleshy  pendants  of  her  head, 
crossed  her  billowy  bosom  with  the  hand  that 
contained  the  liver,  and  slammed  the  door  shut. 

Without  any  clear  transition,  his  hate  shifted 
from  "them"  to  "it."  It  was  "it"  that  was 
tearing  and  killing  Mamie. 

174 


A    DEVIL   OF   A   FELLOW 

"  Damn  it — I'd  like  to — "  The  finger-nails  ate 
into  his  palms.  He  hoped  that  "it"  would  die — 
that  "it"  would  be  a  "six-monther,"  so  there 
could  be  no  possibility  of  its  not  dying.  "Her 
and  I  would  be—  His  ravening  speculations 
tumbled  on  into  giddy  chaos. 

The  night  was  laced  with  threads  of  agony, 
exquisite,  racking,  prolonged,  still  prolonged. 
Va  Di  reached  out  and  gripped  either  edge  of  the 
roof,  as  if  to  keep  himself  from  sliding.  He 
pleaded  with  it  to  stop.  The  interstices  among 
the  leaves  of  the  overhanging  willows  were  filled 
with  the  gore  of  imminent  day;  Ma  Deutra's 
rooster  crowed  in  his  hollow  house  away  down  a 
flushing  lane.  But  still  that  haggard  utterance 
hung  over  the  world. 

It  ceased.  A  faint  breeze  came  to  life  and 
wandered  across  the  back  yards,  tumbling  papers; 
a  lark,  as  though  bribed  and  timed,  mounted  into 
the  sky  and  whistled  his  morning  triumph; 
Va  Di's  head  sank  down  on  his  arms,  his  knees 
caved  in  to  rest  against  the  side  of  the  sty,  and 
his  fingers  fell  out  flat  on  the  shingles. 

He  opened  his  eyes  by  and  by  to  find  Rosie 
Courier  standing  in  the  horizontal  radiance  of 
the  sun,  regarding  him  from  the  other  side  of  the 
pen.  Her  face  was  the  color  of  a  dusty  boot, 
lifeless  and  flabby. 

"She  wants  to  see  you,"  she  said. 

"Who?     Her?" 

She  nodded  stiffly,  allowed  the  thick,  mottled 

175 


LAND'S  END 

lids  to  droop  over  her  eyes,  and  turned  back 
toward  the  kitchen  door.  Va  Di  followed.  In 
the  kitchen  Baldy  Minn  sat  beside  the  sink,  her 
hands  working  in  a  huge  blossom  of  suds.  The 
tight  little  nubbin  of  hair  had  shaken  down  off  the 
bald  spot,  lending  her  a  curious  expression  of 
wildness. 

"Was  it — did—  Va  Di  groped  for  words. 
"Did  it  live,  Baldy  Minn?" 

"Did  it  live?11  Her  eyes  rolled  in  their  liquor, 
her  whole  person  quivered  and  dashed  against 
its  margins,  and  she  grinned  at  him,  closing  the 
rent  in  her  teeth  with  a  meaning  tongue-tip. 
"Did  it  live?  Ho-ho-ho!" 

He  turned  away  and  followed  Rosie  Courier 
through  a  dark  passage,  smelling  of  life  and 
death,  and  entered  a  room  full  of  sunshine. 
Within  the  door  a  profound  embarrassment  laid 
hold  of  him;  he  shifted  from  foot  to  foot  and 
looked  down  at  the  great  hat  revolving  in  his 
hands.  Mamie  was  so  white  and  still  and  all 
eyes,  and  the  eyes  dwelt  upon  him  with  such  a 
spent  and  inscrutable  adoration.  He  was  afraid 
to  look  at  her;  he  felt  curiously  like  a  figure  done 
in  clay,  destructible  and  worthless.  Her  hand, 
all  the  opacity  burned  out  of  it,  lay  on  the 
flowered  "comfortable,"  and  remembering  sud 
denly  how  it  came  out  to  him  from  last  night's 
window,  he  fell  down  on  his  knees  and  laid 
his  cheek  against  it  and  wept  tho  tears  of 

weakness. 

170 


A    DEVIL   OF    A    FELLOW 

' '  Mamie, ' '  he  sobbed  in  the  wadding.  ' '  You're 
a  good  girl,  M-m-mamie." 

After  a  little  a  sound  of  snickering  behind  him 
brought  him  to  his  feet,  his  face  flaming.  It  was 
Baldy  Minn,  almost  filling  the  doorway  with  her 
oceanic  being,  against  which  the  bundle  in  her 
arms  seemed  incredibly  tiny  and  helpless.  She 
advanced,  undulating  and  bubbling,  to  lay  it 
across  Va  Di's  hastily  crooked  arms,  laughing  at 
his  panic. 

He  held  his  chin  stiff  and  his  eyes  desperately 
horizontal.  l '  Naw,  naw !"  he  mumbled.  ' '  Some 
body  come."  He  turned  to  Mamie,  appealing, 
and  Mamie,  moved  by  that  irresponsible  humor 
which  is  deeper  than  solemnity,  smiled. 

"Ton',"  she  whispered,  unsteadily.  "It's 
killin',  Ton' — how  he  favors  you.  It  makes  me 
laugh,  Ton' — you  without  the  mustache,  ex 
actly.  I  wisht  you'd  look,  Ton'." 

His  knees  were  no  good;  he  sat  down  in  a 
rocker  and  looked  around  the  room  for  mental 
help.  Rosie  Courier,  standing,  a  black,  unim 
peachable  spire,  beside  the  bureau,  gave  him 
none.  Her  lids  were  lowered  and  her  thoughts 
had  turned  inward  for  refuge.  By  an  irony,  he 
had  to  come  to  Baldy  Minn.  Dirty,  evil-fleshed, 
full  of  matter  prurient,  there  still  endured  in  her 
a  flicker  of  that  essential  fire  that  lives,  somehow, 
through  all  the  changing  winds  of  orthodoxies. 
She  had  to  express  it,  of  course,  in  her  own 
way. 
12  "7 


LAND'S  END 

"You  old  devil!'7  she  bubbled,  benevolently. 
"I  might  o'  knowed  .  .  ." 

The  bundle  in  Va  Di's  arms  became  articulate, 
demanding  its  primal  planetary  food.  The  man's 
muscles  suffered  a  poignant  sensation  of  combat, 
a  gentle  struggle  with  an  infinitesimal  kicking. 
His  face  became  pink;  his  mouth  muscles  con 
tracted  in  that  species  of  self-conscious  smirk  so 
hard  for  others  to  bear;  he  opened  and  closed  his 
lips  tentatively,  as  though  they  were  quite  new 
and  uncertain  of  their  powers. 

"He's — he's — he's  a  s-s-stout  little  bastard,"  he 
stammered,  in  all  innocence. 


THE  YELLOW  CAT 

AT  least  once  in  my  life  I  have  had  the  good 
fortune  to  board  a  deserted  vessel  at  sea. 
I  say  "good  fortune"  because  it  has  left  me  the 
memory  of  a  singular  impression.  I  have  felt  a 
ghost  of  the  same  thing  two  or  three  times  since 
then,  when  peeping  through  the  doorway  of  an 
abandoned  house. 

Now  that  vessel  was  not  dead.  She  was  a  good 
vessel,  a  sound  vessel,  even  a  handsome  vessel, 
in  her  blunt-bowed,  coastwise  way.  She  sailed 
under  four  lowers  across  as  blue  and  glittering  a 
sea  as  I  have  ever  known,  and  there  was  not  a 
point  in  her  sailing  that  one  could  lay  a  finger 
upon  as  wrong.  And  yet,  passing  that  schooner 
at  two  miles,  one  knew,  somehow,  that  no  hand 
was  on  her  wheel.  Sometimes  I  can  imagine  a 
vessel,  stricken  like  that,  moving  over  the  empty 
spaces  of  the  sea,  carrying  it  off  quite  well  were  it 
not  for  that  indefinable  suggestion  of  a  stagger; 
and  I  can  think  of  all  those  ocean  gods,  in  whom 
no  landsman  will  ever  believe,  looking  at  one 
another  and  tapping  their  foreheads  with  just 

the  shadow  of  a  smile. 

179 


LAND'S   END 

I  wonder  if  they  all  scream — these  ships  that 
have  lost  their  souls?  Mine  screamed.  We 
heard  her  voice,  like  nothing  I  have  ever  heard 
before,  when  we  rowed  under  her  counter  to  read 
her  name — the  Marionnette  it  was,  of  Halifax. 
I  remember  how  it  made  me  shiver,  there  in  the 
full  blaze  of  the  sun,  to  hear  her  going  on  so, 
railing  and  screaming  in  that  stark  fashion. 
And  I  remember,  too,  how  our  footsteps,  patter 
ing  through  the  vacant  internals  in  search  of  that 
haggard  utterance,  made  me  think  of  the  foot 
steps  of  hurrying  warders  roused  in  the  night. 

And  we  found  a  parrot  in  a  cage;  that  was  all. 
It  wanted  water.  We  gave  it  water  arid  went 
away  to  look  things  over,  keeping  pretty  close 
together,  all  of  us.  In  the  quarters  the  table  was 
set  for  four.  Two  men  had  begun  to  eat,  by  the 
evidences  of  the  plates.  Nowhere  in  the  vessel 
was  there  any  sign  of  disorder,  except  one  sea- 
chest  broken  out,  evidently  in  haste.  Her  papers 
were  gone  and  the  stern  davits  were  empty. 
That  is  how  the  case  stood  that  day,  and  that  is 
how  it  has  stood  to  this.  I  saw  this  same  Marion 
nette  a  week  later,  tied  up  to  a  Hoboken  dock, 
where  she  awaited  news  from  her  owners;  but 
even  there,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  water-front 
bustle,  I  could  not  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  she 
was  still  very  far  away — in  a  sort  of  shippish 
other-world. 

The  thing  happens  now  and  then.    Sometimes 

half  a  dozen  years  will  go  by  without  a  solitary 

180 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

wanderer  of  this  sort  crossing  the  ocean  paths, 
and  then  in  a  single  season  perhaps  several  of 
them  will  turn  up:  vacant  waifs,  impassive  and 
mysterious — a  quarter-column  of  tidings  tucked 
away  on  the  second  page  of  the  evening  paper. 

That  is  where  I  read  the  story  about  the  Abbie 
Rose.  I  recollect  how  painfully  awkward  and  out- 
of-place  it  looked  there,  cramped  between  ruled 
black  edges  and  smelling  of  landsman's  ink — • 
this  thing  that  had  to  do  essentially  with  air  and 
vast  colored  spaces.  I  forget  the  exact  words  of 
the  heading — something  like  "  Abandoned  Craft 
Picked  Up  At  Sea" — but  I  still  have  the  clipping 
itself,  couched  in  the  formal  patter  of  the  marine- 
news  writer: 

The  first  hint  of  another  mystery  of  the  sea  came  in 
today  when  the  schooner  Abbie  Rose  dropped  anchor  in 
the  upper  river,  manned  only  by  a  crew  of  one.  It  appears 
that  the  out-bound  freighter  Mercury  sighted  the  Abbie  Rose 
off  Block  Island  on  Thursday  last,  acting  in  a  suspicious 
manner.  A  boat-party  sent  aboard  found  the  schooner  in 
perfect  order  and  condition,  sailing  under  four  lower  sails, 
the  topsails  being  pursed  up  to  the  mastheads  but  not 
stowed.  With  the  exception  of  a  yellow  cat,  the  vessel  was 
found  to  be  utterly  deserted,  though  her  small  boat  still 
hung  in  the  davits.  No  evidences  of  disorder  were  visible 
in  any  part  of  the  craft.  The  dishes  were  washed  up,  the 
stove  in  the  galley  was  still  slightly  warm  to  the  touch, 
everything  in  its  proper  place  with  the  exception  of  the 
vessel's  papers,  which  were  not  to  be  found. 

All  indications  being  for  fair  weather,  Captain  Rohmer 
of  the  Mercury  detailed  two  of  his  company  to  bring  the 
find  back  to  this  port,  a  distance  of  one  hundred  and  fifteen 

181 


LAND'S  END 

miles.  The  only  man  available  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
fore-and-aft  rig  was  Stewart  McCord,  the  second  engineer. 
A  seaman  by  the  name  of  Bjornsen  was  sent  with  him. 
McCord  arrived  this  noon,  after  a  very  heavy  voyage  of 
five  days,  reporting  that  Bjornsen  had  fallen  overboard 
while  shaking  out  the  foretopsail.  McCord  himself  showed 
evidences  of  the  hardships  he  has  passed  through,  being 
almost  a  nervous  wreck. 


Stewart  McCord!  Yes,  Stewart  McCord 
would  have  a  knowledge  of  the  fore-and-aft  rig, 
or  of  almost  anything  else  connected  with  the 
affairs  of  the  sea.  It  happened  that  I  used  to 
know  this  fellow.  I  had  even  been  quite  chummy 
with  him  in  the  old  days — that  is,  to  the  extent 
of  drinking  too  many  beers  with  him  in  certain 
hot-country  ports.  I  remembered  him  as  a  stolid 
and  deliberate  sort  of  a  person,  with  an  amazing 
hodgepodge  of  learning,  a  stamp  collection,  and  a 
theory  about  the  effects  of  tropical  sunshine  on 
the  Caucasian  race,  to  which  I  have  listened  half 
of  more  than  one  night,  stretched  out  naked  on  a 
freighter's  deck.  He  had  not  impressed  me  as  a 
fellow  who  would  be  bothered  by  his  nerves. 

And  there  was  another  thing  about  the  story 
which  struck  me  as  rather  queer.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
relic  of  my  seafaring  days,  but  I  have  always 
been  a  conscientious  reader  of  the  weather  re 
ports;  and  I  could  remember  no  weather  in  the 
past  week  sufficient  to  shake  a  man  out  of  a 
top,  especially  a  man  by  the  name  of  Bjornsen — 
a  thoroughgoing  seafaring  name. 

182 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

I  was  destined  to  hear  more  of  this  in  the 
evening,  from  the  ancient  boatman  who  rowed 
me  out  on  the  upper  river.  He  had  been  to  sea 
in  his  day.  He  knew  enough  to  wonder  about 
this  thing,  even  to  indulge  in  a  little  superstitious 
awe  about  it. 

"No  sir-ee.  Something  happened  to  them  four 
chaps.  And  another  thing— 

I  fancied  I  heard  a  sea-bird  whining  in  the 
darkness  overhead.  A  shape  moved  out  of  the 
gloom  ahead,  passed  to  the  left,  lofty  and  silent, 
and  merged  once  more  with  the  gloom  behind — • 
a  barge  at  anchor,  with  the  sea-grass  clinging 
around  her  water-line. 

"Funny  about  that  other  chap,"  the  old  fellow 
speculated.  "Bjornsen — I  b'lieve  he  called  'im. 
Now  that  story  sounds  to  me  kind  of—  He 
feathered  his  oars  with  a  suspicious  jerk  and 
peered  at  me.  ' '  This  McCord  a  friend  of  yourn?' ' 
he  inquired. 

"In  a  way,"  I  said. 

"Hm-m — well—  He  turned  on  his  thwart  to 
squint  ahead.  "There  she  is,"  he  announced, 
with  something  of  relief,  I  thought. 

It  was  hard  at  that  time  of  night  to  make 
anything  but  a  black  blotch  out  of  the  Abbie 
Rose.  Of  course  I  could  see  that  she  was  pot 
bellied,  like  the  rest  of  the  coastwise  sisterhood. 
And  that  McCord  had  not  stowed  his  topsails. 
I  could  make  them  out,  pursed  at  the  mast 
heads  and  hanging  down  as  far  as  the  cross- 

183 


LAND'S  END 

trees,  like  huge,  over-ripe  pears.  Then  I  rec 
ollected  that  he  had  found  them  so — probably 
had  not  touched  them  since;  a  queer  way  to 
leave  tops,  it  seemed  to  me.  I  could  see  also  the 
glowing  tip  of  a  cigar  floating  restlessly  along 
the  farther  rail.  I  called:  "McCord!  Oh, 
McCord!" 

The  spark  came  swimming  across  the  deck. 
" Hello!  Hello,  there — ah—  There  was  a  note 
of  querulous  uneasiness  there  that  somehow 
jarred  with  my  remembrance  of  this  man. 

"Ridgeway,"  I  explained. 

He  echoed  the  name  uncertainly,  still  with  that 
suggestion  of  peevishness,  hanging  over  the  rail 
and  peering  down  at  us.  "  Oh !  By  gracious !"  he 
exclaimed,  abruptly.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you, 
Ridgeway.  I  had  a  boatman  coming  out  before 
this,  but  I  guess — well,  I  guess  he'll  be  along. 
By  gracious!  I'm  glad — " 

"I'll  not  keep  you,"  I  told  the  gnome,  putting 
the  money  in  his  palm  and  reaching  for  the  rail. 
McCord  lent  me  a  hand  on  my  wrist.  Then  when 
I  stood  squarely  on  the  deck  beside  him  he  ap 
peared  to  forget  my  presence,  leaned  forward 
heavily  on  the  rail,  and  squinted  after  my  waning 
boatman. 

"Ahoy — boat!"  he  called  out,  sharply,  shield 
ing  his  lips  with  his  hands.  His  violence  seemed 
to  bring  him  out  of  the  blank,  for  he  fell  im 
mediately  to  puffing  strongly  at  his  cigar  and 
explaining  in  rather  a  shame-voiced  way  that  he 

184 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

was  beginning  to  think  his  own  boatman  had 
" passed  him  up." 

"Come  in  and  have  a  nip,"  he  urged  with  an 
abrupt  heartiness,  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"So  you've — "  I  did  not  say  what  I  had  in 
tended.  I  was  thinking  that  in  the  old  days 
McCord  had  made  rather  a  fetish  of  touching 
nothing  stronger  than  beer.  Neither  had  he 
been  of  the  shoulder-clapping  sort.  "So  you've 
got  something  aboard?"  I  shifted. 

"Dead  men's  liquor,"  he  chuckled.  It  gave 
me  a  queer  feeling  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach  to 
hear  him.  I  began  to  wish  I  had  not  come,  but 
there  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  follow  him 
into  the  after-house.  The  cabin  itself  might  have 
been  nine  feet  square,  with  three  bunks  occupy 
ing  the  port  side.  To  the  right  opened  the 
master's  state-room,  and  a  door  in  the  forward 
bulkhead  led  to  the  galley. 

I  took  in  these  features  at  a  casual  glance. 
Then,  hardly  knowing  why  I  did  it,  I  began  to 
examine  them  with  greater  care. 

"Have  you  a  match?"  I  asked.  My  voice 
sounded  very  small,  as  though  something  un 
heard  of  had  happened  to  all  the  air. 

"Smoke?"  he  asked.    "I'll  get  you  a  cigar." 

"No."  I  took  the  proffered  match,  scratched 
it  on  the  side  of  the  galley  door,  and  passed  out. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  thousand  pans  there,  throw 
ing  my  match  back  at  me  from  every  wall  of  the 
box-like  compartment.  Even  McCord's  eyes, 

185 


LAND'S  END 

in  the  doorway,  were  large  and  round  and  shining. 
He  probably  thought  me  crazy.  Perhaps  I  was, 
a  little.  I  ran  the  match  along  close  to  the  ceiling 
and  came  upon  a  rusty  hook  a  little  aport  of  the 
center. 

" There,"  I  said.  "Was  there  anything  hang 
ing  from  this — er — say  a  parrot — or  something, 
McCord?"  The  match  burned  my  fingers  and 
went  out. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  McCord  demanded 
from  the  doorway.  I  got  myself  back  into  the 
comfortable  yellow  glow  of  the  cabin  before  I 
answered,  and  then  it  was  a  question. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about  this 
craft's  personal  history?" 

"No.    What  are  you  talking  about!    Why?" 

"Well,  I  do,"  I  offered.  "For  one  thing,  she's 
changed  her  name.  And  it  happens  this  isn't  the 
first  time  she's —  Well,  damn  it  all,  fourteen 
years  ago  I  helped  pick  up  this  whatever-she-is 
off  the  Virginia  Capes — in  the  same  sort  of 
condition.  There  you  are !"  I  was  yapping  like  a 
nerve-strung  puppy. 

McCord  leaned  forward  with  his  hands  on  the 
table,  bringing  his  face  beneath  the  fan  of  the 
hanging-lamp.  For  the  first  time  I  could  mark 
how  shockingly  it  had  changed.  It  was  almost 
colorless.  The  jaw  had  somehow  lost  its  old- 
time  security  and  the  eyes  seemed  to  be  loose  in 
their  sockets.  I  had  expected  him  to  start  at  my 
announcement;  he  only  blinked  at  the  light. 

186 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  he  remarked  at  length. 
"After  what  I've  seen  and  heard—  He  lifted 
his  fist  and  brought  it  down  with  a  sudden  crash 
on  the  table.  "Man — let's  have  a  nip!" 

He  was  off  before  I  could  say  a  word,  fumbling 
out  of  sight  in  the  narrow  state-room.  Presently 
he  reappeared,  holding  a  glass  in  either  hand  and  a 
dark  bottle  hugged  between  his  elbows.  Putting 
the  glasses  down,  he  held  up  the  bottle  between 
his  eyes  and  the  lamp,  and  its  shadow,  falling 
across  his  face,  green  and  luminous  at  the  core, 
gave  him  a  ghastly  look — like  a  mutilation  or  an 
unspeakable  birth-mark.  He  shook  the  bottle 
gently  and  chuckled  his  "Dead  men's  liquor" 
again.  Then  he  poured  two  half-glasses  of  the 
clear  gin,  swallowed  his  portion,  and  sat  down. 

"A  parrot,"  he  mused,  a  little  of  the  liquor's 
color  creeping  into  his  cheeks.  "No,  this  time 
it  was  a  cat,  Ridge  way.  A  yellow  cat.  She 
was — •" 

"  Was?"  I  caught  him  up.  "What's  happened 
— what's  become  of  her?" 

"Vanished.  Evaporated.  I  haven't  seen  her 
since  night  before  last,  when  I  caught  her  trying 
to  lower  the  boat — " 

11  Stop  it!"  It  was  I  who  banged  the  table  now, 
without  any  of  the  reserve  of  decency.  ' '  McCord, 
you're  drunk — drunk,  I  tell  you.  A  cat!  Let  a 
cat  throw  you  off  your  head  like  this!  She's 
probably  hiding  out  below  this  minute,  on 

affairs  of  her  own." 

187 


LAND'S   END 

"Hiding?"  He  regarded  me  for  a  moment 
with  the  queer  superiority  of  the  damned.  "I 
guess  you  don't  realize  how  many  times  I've 
been  over  this  hulk,  from  decks  to  keelson,  with 
a  mallet  and  a  foot-rule." 

"  Or  fallen  overboard,"  I  shifted,  with  less 
assurance.  "Like  this  fellow  Bjornsen.  By  the 
way,  McCord — "  I  stopped  there  on  account  of 
the  look  in  his  eyes. 

He  reached  out,  poured  himself  a  shot,  swal 
lowed  it,  and  got  up  to  shuffle  about  the  con 
fined  quarters.  I  watched  their  restless  circuit — • 
my  friend  and  his  jumping  shadow.  He  stopped 
and  bent  forward  to  examine  a  Sunday-supple 
ment  chromo  tacked  on  the  wall,  and  the  two 
heads  drew  together,  as  though  there  were  some 
thing  to  whisper.  Of  a  sudden  I  seemed  to  hear 
the  old  gnome  croaking,  "Now  that  story  sounds 
to  me  kind  of— 

McCord  straightened  up  and  turned  to  face  me. 

"What  do  you  know  about  Bjornsen?"  he  de 
manded. 

"Well — only  what  they  had  you  saying  in  the 
papers,"  I  told  him. 

"Pshaw!"  He  snapped  his  fingers,  tossing 
the  affair  aside.  "I  found  her  log,"  he  an 
nounced  in  quite  another  voice. 

"You  did,  eh?  I  judged,  from  what  I  read  in 
the  paper,  that  there  wasn't  a  sign." 

"No,  no;  I  happened  on  this  the  other  night, 
under  the  mattress  in  there."  He  jerked  his 

188 


THE    YELLOW    CA'T 

head  toward  the  state-room.  "Wait!"  I  heard 
him  knocking  things  over  in  the  dark  and 
mumbling  at  them.  After  a  moment  he  came  out 
and  threw  on  the  table  a  long,  cloth-covered 
ledger,  of  the  common  commercial  sort.  It  lay 
open  at  about  the  middle,  showing  close  script 
running  indiscriminately  across  the  column  rul 
ing. 

"When  I  said  'log/  "  he  went  on,  "I  guess  I 
was  going  it  a  little  strong.  At  least,  I  wouldn't 
want  that  sort  of  log  found  around  my  vessel. 
Let's  call  it  a  personal  record.  Here's  his  picture, 
somewhere—  He  shook  the  book  by  its  back 
and  a  common  kodak  blue-print  fluttered  to  the 
table.  It  was  the  likeness  of  a  solid  man  with  a 
paunch,  a  huge  square  beard,  small  squinting 
eyes,  and  a  bald  head.  "What  do  you  make  of 
him — a  writing  chap?" 

"From  the  nose  down,  yes,"  I  estimated. 
"From  the  nose  up,  he  will  'tend  to  his  own 
business  if  you  will  'tend  to  yours,  strictly." 

McCord  slapped  his  thigh.  "By  gracious! 
that's  the  fellow!  He  hates  the  Chinaman.  He 
knows  as  well  as  anything  he  ought  not  to  put 
down  in  black  and  white  how  intolerably  he 
hates  the  Chinaman,  and  yet  he  must  sneak  off 
to  his  cubby-hole  and  suck  his  pencil,  and — how 
is  it  Stevenson  has  it? — the  '  agony  of  composi 
tion/  you  remember.  Can  you  imagine  the 
fellow,  Ridgeway,  bundling  down  here  with  the 

fever  on  him — " 

189 


LAND'S  END 

"About  the  Chinaman,"  I  broke  in.  "I  think 
you  said  something  about  a  Chinaman?" 

"Yes.  The  cook,  he  must  have  been.  I  gather 
he  wasn't  the  master's  pick,  by  the  reading- 
matter  here.  Probably  clapped  on  to  him  by  the 
owners — shifted  from  one  of  their  others  at  the 
last  moment;  a  queer  trick.  Listen."  He  picked 
up  the  book  and,  running  over  the  pages  with  a 
selective  thumb,  read: 

"August  second. — First  part,  moderate  southwesterly 
breeze — 

and  so  forth — er — but  here  he  comes  to  it: 

"Anything  can  happen  to  a  man  at  sea,  even  a  funeral. 
In  special  to  a  Chinyman,  who  is  of  no  account  to  social 
welfare,  being  a  barbarian  as  I  look  at  it. 

"Something  of  a  philosopher,  you  see.  And 
did  you  get  the  reserve  in  that  'even  a  funeral'? 
An  artist,  I  tell  you.  But  wait :  let  me  catch  him 
a  bit  wilder.  Here: 

"I'll  get  that  mustard-colored [This  is  back  a  couple 

of  days.]    Never  can  hear  the coming,  in  them  carpet 

slippers.  Turned  round  and  found  him  standing  right  to 
my  back  this  morning.  Could  have  stuck  a  knife  into  me 
easy.  'Look  here!'  says  I,  and  fetched  him  a  tap  on  the  ear 
that  will  make  him  walk  louder  next  time,  I  warrant.  He 
could  have  stuck  a  knife  into  me  easy. 

"A  clear  case  of  moral  funk,  I  should  say. 
Can  you  imagine  the  fellow.  Ridge  way — •" 

190 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

"  Yes;  oh,  yes."  I  was  ready  with  a  phrase  of 
my  own.  "  A  man  handicapped  with  an  imagina 
tion.  You  see  he  can't  quite  understand  this 
'  barbarian/  who  has  him  beaten  by  about  thirty 
centuries  of  civilization — and  his  imagination  has 
to  have  something  to  chew  on,  something  to  hit — 
a  Hap  on  the  ear/  you  know." 

"By  gracious!  that's  the  ticket!"  McCord 
pounded  his  knee.  "And  now  we've  got  another 
chap  going  to  pieces — Peters,  he  calls  him.  Re 
fuses  to  eat  dinner  on  August  the  third,  claiming 
he  caught  the  Chink  making  passes  over  the 
chowder-pot  with  his  thumb.  Can  you  believe 
it,  Ridgeway — in  this  very  cabin  here?"  Then 
he  went  on  with  a  suggestion  of  haste,  as  though 
he  had  somehow  made  a  slip.  "Well,  at  any  rate, 
the  disease  seems  to  be  catching.  Next  day  it's 
Bach,  the  second  seaman,  who  begins  to  feel  the 
gaff.  Listen : 

"Bach  he  comes  to  me  to-night,  complaining  he's  being 

watched.    He  claims  the has  got  the  evil  eye.    Says  he 

can  see  you  through  a  two-inch  bulkhead,  and  the  like. 
The  Chink's  laying  in  his  bunk,  turned  the  other  way. 
'Why  don't  you  go  aboard  of  him?'  says  I.  The  Butcher 
says  nothing,  but  goes  over  to  his  own  bunk  and  feels  under 
the  straw.  When  he  comes  back  he's  looking  queer.  'By 
God!'  says  he,  'the  devil  has  swiped  my  gun!'  .  .  .  Now 
if  that's  true  there  is  going  to  be  hell  to  pay  in  this  vessel 
very  quick.  I  figure  I'm  still  master  of  this  vessel." 

"The  evil  eye,"  I  grunted.  "Consciences  gone 
wrong  there  somewhere." 

191 


LAND'S  END 

"Not  altogether,  Ridgeway.  I  can  see  that 
yellow  man  peeking.  Now  just  figure  yourself, 
say,  eight  thousand  miles  from  home,  out  on  the 
water  alone  with  a  crowd  of  heathen  fanatics 
crazy  from  fright,  looking  around  for  guns  and  so 
on.  Don't  you  believe  you'd  keep  an  eye  around 
the  corners,  kind  of — eh?  I'll  bet  a  hat  he  was 
taking  it  all  in,  lying  there  in  his  bunk,  'turned 
the  other  way.'  Eh?  I  pity  the  poor  cuss — 
Well,  there's  only  one  more  entry  after  that. 
He's  good  and  mad.  Here: 

"Now,  by  God!  this  is  the  end.  My  gun's  gone,  too; 
right  out  from  under  lock  and  key,  by  God!  I  been  talking 
with  Bach  this  morning.  Not  to  let  on,  I  had  him  in  to 
clean  my  lamp.  There's  more  ways  than  one,  he  says,  and 
so  do  I." 

McCord  closed  the  book  and  dropped  it  on  the 
table.  "Finis,"  he  said.  "The  rest  is  blank  paper." 

"Well!"  I  will  confess  I  felt  much  better  than 
I  had  for  some  time  past.  "There's  one  ' mystery 
of  the  sea'  gone  to  pot,  at  any  rate.  And  now,  if 
you  don't  mind,  I  think  I'll  have  another  of 
your  nips,  McCord." 

He  pushed  my  glass  across  the  table  and  got 
up,  and  behind  his  back  his  shadow  rose  to  scour 
the  corners  of  the  room,  like  an  incorruptible 
sentinel.  I  forgot  to  take  up  my  gin,  watching 
him.  After  an  uneasy  minute  or  so  he  came  back 
to  the  table  and  pressed  the  tip  of  a  forefinger 

on  the  book. 

192 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

"Ridgeway,"  he  said,  "you  don't  seem  to 
understand.  This  particular  '  mystery  of  the 
sea'  hasn't  been  scratched  yet  —  not  even 
scratched,  Ridge  way."  He  sat  down  and  leaned 
forward,  fixing  me  with  a  didactic  finger.  "  What 
happened?" 

"Well,  I  have  an  idea  the  ' barbarian7  got 
them,  when  it  came  to  the  pinch." 

"And  let  the — remains  over  the  side?" 

"I  should  say." 

"And  they  came  back  and  got  the  ' barbarian' 
and  let  him  over  the  side,  eh?  There  were  none 
left,  you  remember." 

"Oh,  good  Lord,  I  don't  know!"  I  flared  with 
a  childish  resentment  at  this  catechizing  of  his. 
But  his  finger  remained  there,  challenging. 

"I  do,"  he  announced.  "The  Chinaman  put 
them  over  the  side,  as  we  have  said.  And  then, 
after  that,  he  died — of  wounds  about  the  head." 

"So?"    I  had  still  sarcasm. 

"You  will  remember,"  he  went  on,  "that  the 
skipper  did  not  happen  to  mention  a  cat,  a 
yellow  cat,  in  his  confessions." 

"McCord,"  I  begged  him,  "please  drop  it. 
Why  in  thunder  should  he  mention  a  cat?" 

"True.  Why  should  he  mention  a  cat?  I 
think  one  of  the  reasons  why  he  should  not 
mention  a  cat  is  because  there  did  not  happen  to 
be  a  cat  aboard  at  that  time." 

"Oh,  all  right!"  I  reached  out  and  pulled  the 
bottle  to  my  side  of  the  table.  Then  I  took  out 

13  193 


LAND'S  END 

my  watch.  "If  you  don't  mind,"  I  suggested, 
"I  think  we'd  better  be  going  ashore.  I've  got 
to  get  to  my  office  rather  early  in  the  morning. 
What  do  you  say?" 

He  said  nothing  for  the  moment,  but  his 
finger  had  dropped.  He  leaned  back  and  stared 
straight  into  the  core  of  the  light  above,  his 
eyes  squinting. 

"He  would  have  been  from  the  south  of  China, 
probably."  He  seemed  to  be  talking  to  himself. 
"There's  a  considerable  sprinkling  of  the  belief 
down  there,  I've  heard.  It's  an  uncanny  busi 
ness — this  transmigration  of  souls — " 

Personally,  I  had  had  enough  of  it.  McCord's 
fingers  came  groping  across  the  table  for  the 
bottle.  I  picked  it  up  hastily  and  let  it  go  through 
the  open  companionway,  where  it  died  with  a 
faint  gurgle,  out  somewhere  on  the  river. 

"Now,"  I  said  to  him,  shaking  the  vagrant 
wrist,  "either  you  come  ashore  with  me  or  you 
go  in  there  and  get  under  the  blankets.  You're 
drunk,  McCord — drunk.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

"Ridge way,"  he  pronounced,  bringing  his  eyes 
down  to  me  and  speaking  very  slowly.  "You're 
a  fool,  if  you  can't  see  better  than  that.  I'm  not 
drunk.  I'm  sick.  I  haven't  slept  for  three 
nights — and  now  I  can't.  And  you  say — you — •" 
He  went  to  pieces  very  suddenly,  jumped  up, 
pounded  the  legs  of  his  chair  on  the  decking,  and 
shouted  at  me:  "And  you  say  that,  you — you 
landlubber,  you  office  coddler!  You're  so  com- 

194 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

fortably  sure  that  everything  in  the  world  is  cut 
and  dried.  Come  back  to  the  water  again  and 
learn  how  to  wonder — and  stop  talking  like  a 
damn  fool.  Do  you  know  where —  Is  there 
anything  in  your  municipal  budget  to  tell  me 
where  Bjornsen  went?  Listen!"  He  sat  down, 
waving  me  to  do  the  same,  and  went  on  with  a 
sort  of  desperate  repression. 

"It  happened  on  the  first  night  after  we  took 
this  hellion.  I'd  stood  the  wheel  most  of  the 
afternoon — off  and  on,  that  is,  because  she  sails 
herself  uncommonly  well.  Just  put  her  on  a 
reach,  you  know,  and  she  carries  it  off  pretty 
well—" 

"  I  know,"  I  nodded. 

"Well,  we  mugged  up  about  seven  o'clock. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  canned  stuff  in  the 
galley,  and  Bjornsen  wasn't  a  bad  hand  with  a 
kettle — a  thoroughgoing  Square-head  he  was— 
tall  and  lean  and  yellow-haired,  with  little  fat, 
round  cheeks  and  a  white  mustache.  Not  a  bad 
chap  at  all.  He  took  the  wheel  to  stand  till  mid 
night,  and  I  turned  in,  but  I  didn't  drop  off  for 
quite  a  spell.  I  could  hear  his  boots  wandering 
around  over  my  head,  padding  off  forward, 
coming  back  again.  I  heard  him  whistling  now 
and  then — an  outlandish  air.  Occasionally  I 
could  see  the  shadow  of  his  head  waving  in  a 
block  of  moonlight  that  lay  on  the  decking  right 
down  there  in  front  of  the  state-room  door. 
It  came  from  the  companion;  the  cabin  was 

195 


LAND'S  END       . 

dark  because  we  were  going  easy  on  the  oil. 
They  hadn't  left  a  great  deal,  for  some  reason  or 
other." 

McCord  leaned  back  and  described  with  his 
finger  where  the  illumination  had  cut  the  decking. 

" There!  I  could  see  it  from  my  bunk,  as  I 
lay,  you  understand.  I  must  have  almost 
dropped  off  once  when  I  heard  him  fiddling 
around  out  here  in  the  cabin,  and  then  he  said 
something  in  a  whisper,  just  to  find  out  if  I  was 
still  awake,  I  suppose.  I  asked  him  what  the 
matter  was.  He  came  and  poked  his  head  in  the 
door." 

"  'The  breeze  is  going  out/  says  he.  'I  was 
wondering  if  we  couldn't  get  a  little  more  sail  on 
her.'  Only  I  can't  give  you  his  fierce  Square 
head  tang.  '  How  about  the  tops?'  he  suggested. 

"I  was  so  sleepy  I  didn't  care,  and  I  told  him 
so.  'All  right/  he  says,  'but  I  thought  I  might 
shake  out  one  of  them  tops/  Then  I  heard  him 

blow  at  something  outside.  'Scat,  you  P 

Then:  'This  cat's  going  to  set  me  crazy,  Mr. 
McCord/  he  says,  'following  me  around  every 
where/  He  gave  a  kick,  and  I  saw  something 
yellow  floating  across  the  moonlight.  It  never 
made  a  sound — just  floated.  You  wouldn't  have 
known  it  ever  lit  anywhere,  just  like — " 

McCord  stopped  and  drummed  a  few  beats  on 
the  table  with  his  fist,  as  though  to  bring  himself 
back  to  the  straight  narrative. 

' '  I  went  to  sleep/ '  he  began  again.    ' '  I  dreamed 

196 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

about  a  lot  of  things.  I  woke  up  sweating.  You 
know  how  glad  you  are  to  wake  up  after  a  dream 
like  that  and  find  none  of  it  is  so?  Well,  I  turned 
over  and  settled  to  go  off  again,  and  then  I  got  a 
little  more  awake  and  thought  to  myself  it  must 
be  pretty  near  time  for  me  to  go  on  deck.  I 
scratched  a  match  and  looked  at  my  watch. 
'  That  fellow  must  be  either  a  good  chap  or  asleep/ 
I  said  to  myself.  And  I  rolled  out  quick  and 
went  above-decks.  He  wasn't  at  the  wheel. 
I  called  him:  'Bjornsen!  Bjornsen!'  No 


answer." 


McCord  was  really  telling  a  story  now.  He 
paused  for  a  long  moment,  one  hand  shielding 
an  ear  and  his  eyeballs  turned  far  up. 

"That  was  the  first  time  I  really  went  over  the 
hulk,"  he  ran  on.  "I  got  out  a  lantern  and 
started  at  the  forward  end  of  the  hold,  and  I 
worked  aft,  and  there  was  nothing  there.  Not  a 
sign,  or  a  stain,  or  a  scrap  of  clothing,  or  any 
thing.  You  may  believe  that  I  began  to  feel 
funny  inside.  I  went  over  the  decks  and  the 
rails  and  the  house  itself — inch  by  inch.  Not  a 
trace.  I  went  out  aft  again.  The  cat  sat  on  the 
wheel-box,  washing  her  face.  I  hadn't  noticed 
the  scar  on  her  head  before,  running  down  be 
tween  her  ears — rather  a  new  scar — three  or  four 
days  old,  I  should  say.  It  looked  ghastly  and 
blue-white  in  the  flat  moonlight.  I  ran  over  and 
grabbed  her  up  to  heave  her  over  the  side — 
you  understand  how  upset  I  was.  Now  you 

197 


LAND'S  END 

know  a  cat  will  squirm  around  and  grab  some 
thing  when  you  hold  it  like  that,  generally  speak 
ing.  This  one  didn't.  She  just  drooped  and  be 
gan  to  purr  and  looked  up  at  me  out  of  her 
moonlit  eyes  under  that  scar.  I  dropped  her  on 
the  deck  and  backed  off.  You  remember 
Bjornsen  had  kicked  her — and  I  didn't  want 
anything  like  that  happening  to — " 

The  narrator  turned  upon  me  with  a  sudden 
heat,  leaned  over  and  shook  his  ringer  before  my 
face. 

" There  you  go!"  he  cried.  "You,  with  your 
stout  stone  buildings  and  your  policemen  and 
your  neighborhood  church — you're  so  damn  sure. 
But  I'd  just  like  to  see  you  out  there,  alone,  with 
the  moon  setting,  and  all  the  lights  gone  tall  and 
queer,  and  a  shipmate — "  He  lifted  his  hand 
overhead,  the  finger-tips  pressed  together  and 
then  suddenly  separated  as  though  he  had  re 
leased  an  impalpable  something  into  the  air. 

"  Go  on/'  I  told  him. 

"I  felt  more  like  you  do,  when  it  got  light 
again,  and  warm  and  sunshiny.  I  said  'Bah!' 
to  the  whole  business.  I  even  fed  the  cat,  and  I 
slept  awhile  on  the  roof  of  the  house — I  was  so 
sure.  We  lay  dead  most  of  the  day,  without  a 
streak  of  air.  But  that  night — !  Well,  that 
night  I  hadn't  got  over  being  sure  yet.  It  takes 
quite  a  jolt,  you  know,  to  shake  loose  several 
dozen  generations.  A  fair,  steady  breeze  had 
come  along,  the  glass  was  high,  she  was  staying 

198 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

herself  like  a  doll,  and  so  I  figured  I  could  get  a 
little  rest,  lying  below  in  the  bunk,  even  if  I 
didn't  sleep. 

"I  tried  not  to  sleep,  in  case  something  should 
come  up — a  squall  or  the  like.  But  I  think  I 
must  have  dropped  off  once  or  twice.  I  remem 
ber  I  heard  something  fiddling  around  in  the 
galley,  and  I  hollered  '  Scat !'  and  everything  was 
quiet  again.  I  rolled  over  and  lay  on  my  left  side, 
staring  at  that  square  of  moonlight  outside  my 
door  for  a  long  time.  You'll  think  it  was  a  dream 
—what  I  saw  there. " 

"Go  on,"  I  said. 

"Call  this  table-top  the  spot  of  light,  roughly," 
he  said.  He  placed  a  finger-tip  at  about  the 
middle  of  the  forward  edge  and  drew  it  slowly 
toward  the  center.  "Here,  what  would  corre 
spond  with  the  upper  side  of  the  companionway, 
there  came  down  very  gradually  the  shadow  of  a 
tail.  I  watched  it  streaking  out  there  across  the 
deck,  wiggling  the  slightest  bit  now  and  then. 
When  it  had  come  down  about  half-way  across 
the  light,  the  solid  part  of  the  animal — its  shadow, 
you  understand — began  to  appear,  quite  big  and 
round.  But  how  could  she  hang  there,  done  up 
in  a  ball,  from  the  hatch?" 

He  shifted  his  finger  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
table  and  puddled  it  around  to  signify  the 
shadowed  body. 

"I  fished  my  gun  out  from  behind  my  back. 

You  see,  I  was  feeling  funny  again.     Then  I 

199 


LAND'S  END 

started  to  slide  one  foot  over  the  edge  of  the 
bunk,  always  with  my  eyes  on  that  shadow. 
Now  I  swear  I  didn't  make  the  sound  of  a  pin 
dropping,  but  I  had  no  more  than  moved  a 
muscle  when  that  shadowed  thing  twisted  itself 
around  in  a  flash — and  there  on  the  floor  before 
me  was  the  profile  of  a  man's  head,  upside  down, 
listening — a  man's  head  with  a  tail  of  hair.'7 

McCord  got  up  hastily  and  stepped  over  in 
front  of  the  state-room  door,  where  he  bent  down 
and  scratched  a  match. 

"See,"  he  said,  holding  the  tiny  flame  above  a 
splintered  scar  on  the  boards.  "You  wouldn't 
think  a  man  would  be  fool  enough  to  shoot  at  a 
shadow?" 

He  came  back  and  sat  down. 

"It  seemed  to  me  all  hell  had  shaken  loose. 
You've  no  idea,  Ridgeway,  the  rumpus  a  gun 
raises  in  a  box  like  this.  I  found  out  afterward 
the  slug  ricochetted  into  the  galley,  bringing 
down  a  couple  of  pans — and  that  helped.  Oh, 
yes,  I  got  out  of  here  quick  enough.  I  stood  there, 
half  out  of  the  companion,  with  my  hands  on  the 
hatch  and  the  gun  between  them,  and  my  shadow 
running  off  across  the  top  of  the  house  shivering 
before  my  eyes  like  a  dry  leaf.  There  wasn't  a 
whisper  of  sound  in  the  world — just  the  pale 
water  floating  past  and  the  sails  towering  up  like 
a  pair  of  twittering  ghosts.  And  everything  that 
crazy  color — 

"Well,  in  a  minute  I  saw  it,  just  abreast  of  the 
200 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

mainmast,  crouched  down  in  the  shadow  of  the 
weather  rail,  sneaking  off  forward  very  slowly. 
This  time  I  took  a  good  long  sight  before  I  let 
go.  Did  you  ever  happen  to  see  black-powder 
smoke  in  the  moonlight?  It  puffed  out  perfectly 
round,  like  a  big,  pale  balloon,  this  did,  and  for  a 
second  something  was  bounding  through  it — 
without  a  sound,  you  understand — something  a 
shade  solider  than  the  smoke  and  big  as  a  cow, 
it  looked  to  me.  It  passed  from  the  weather  side 
to  the  lee  and  ducked  behind  the  sweep  of  the 
mainsail  like  that—  McCord  snapped  his 
thumb  and  forefinger  under  the  light. 

"Go  on,"  I  said.    "What  did  you  do  then?" 

McCord  regarded  me  for  an  instant  from  be 
neath  his  lids,  uncertain.  His  fist  hung  above 
the  table.  "You're—  He  hesitated,  his  lips 
working  vacantly.  A  forefinger  came  out  of  the 
fist  and  gesticulated  before  my  face.  "If  you're 
laughing,  why,  damn  me,  I'll— 

"Go  on,"  I  repeated.  "What  did  you  do 
then?" 

"I  followed  the  thing."  He  was  still  watching 
me  sullenly.  ' '  I  got  up  and  went  forward  along  the 
roof  of  the  house,  so  as  to  have  an  eye  on  either 
rail.  You  understand,  this  business  had  to  be 
done  with.  I  kept  straight  along.  Every 
shadow  I  wasn't  absolutely  sure  of  I  made  sure 
of — point-blank.  And  I  rounded  the  thing  up 
at  the  very  stem — sitting  on  the  butt  of  the 
bowsprit,  Ridgeway,  washing  her  yellow  face 

201 


LAND'S  END 

under  the  moon.  I  didn't  make  any  bones  about 
it  this  time.  I  put  the  bad  end  of  that  gun 
against  the  scar  on  her  head  and  squeezed  the 
trigger.  It  snicked  on  an  empty  shell.  I  tell  you 
a  fact;  I  was  almost  deafened  by  the  report  that 
didn't  come. 

'•'She  followed  me  aft.  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  her.  I  went  and  sat  on  the  wheel-box  and 
she  came  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  house,  facing 
me.  And  there  we  stayed  for  upwards  of  an  hour, 
without  moving.  Finally  she  went  over  and  stuck 
her  paw  in  the  water-pan  I'd  set  out  for  her;  then 
she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  me  and  yawled. 
At  sundown  there' d  been  two  quarts  of  water 
in  that  pan.  You  wouldn't  think  a  cat  could  get 
away  with  two  quarts  of  water  in — " 

He  broke  off  again  and  considered  me  with  a 
sort  of  weary  defiance. 

"  What's  the  use?"  He  spread  out  his  hands 
in  a  gesture  of  hopelessness.  "I  knew  you 
wouldn't  believe  it  when  I  started.  You  couldn't. 
It  would  be  a  kind  of  blasphemy  against  the 
sacred  institution  of  pavements.  You're  too 
damn  smug,  Ridgeway.  I  can't  shake  you. 
You  haven't  sat  two  days  and  two  nights,  keeping 
your  eyes  open  by  sheer  teeth-gritting,  until  they 
got  used  to  it  and  wouldn't  shut  any  more. 
When  I  tell  you  I  found  that  yellow  thing 
snooping  around  the  davits,  and  three  bights  of 
the  boat-fall  loosened  out,  plain  on  deck — you 
grin  behind  your  collar.  When  I  tell  you  she 

202 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

padded  off  forward  and  evaporated — flickered 
back  to  hell  and  hasn't  been  seen  since,  then — 
why,  you  explain  to  yourself  that  I'm  drunk. 
I  tell  you—  '  He  jerked  his  head  back  ab 
ruptly  and  turned  to  face  the  companionway, 
his  lips  still  apart.  He  listened  so  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  he  shook  himself  out  of  it  and 
went  on: 

"I  tell  you,  Ridgeway,  IVe  been  over  this  hulk 
with  a  foot-rule.  There's  not  a  cubic  inch  I 
haven't  accounted  for,  not  a  plank  I— 

This  time  he  got  up  and  moved  a  step  toward 
the  companion,  where  he  stood  with  his  head 
bent  forward  and  slightly  to  the  side.  After 
what  might  have  been  twenty  seconds  of  this  he 
whispered,  "Do"  you  hear?" 

Far  and  far  away  down  the  reach  a  ferry-boat 
lifted  its  infinitesimal  wail,  and  then  the  silence 
of  the  night  river  came  down  once  more,  pro 
found  and  inscrutable.  A  corner  of  the  wick 
above  my  head  sputtered  a  little — that  was  all. 

"Hear  what?"  I  whispered  back.  He  lifted  a 
cautious  finger  toward  the  opening. 

"Somebody.     Listen." 

The  man's  faculties  must  have  been  keyed  up 
to  the  pitch  of  his  nerves,  for  to  me  the  night 
remained  as  voiceless  as  a  subterranean  cavern. 
I  became  intensely  irritated  with  him;  within  my 
mind  I  cried  out  against  this  infatuated  panto 
mime  of  his.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  there  was  a 
sound — the  dying  rumor  of  a  ripple,  somewhere 

203 


LAND'S  END 

in  the  outside  darkness,  as  though  an  object  had 
been  let  into  the  water  with  extreme  care. 

"You  heard?" 

I  nodded.  The  ticking  of  the  watch  in  my  vest 
pocket  came  to  my  ears,  shucking  off  the  leisurely 
seconds,  while  McCord's  finger-nails  gnawed  at 
the  palms  of  his  hands.  The  man  was  really 
sick.  He  wheeled  on  me  and  cried  out,  "My 
God!  Ridgeway — why  don't  we  go  out?" 

I,  for  one,  refused  to  be  a  fool.  I  passed  him 
and  climbed  out  of  the  opening;  he  followed  far 
enough  to  lean  his  elbows  on  the  hatch,  his  feet 
and  legs  still  within  the  secure  glow  of  the 
cabin. 

"You  see,  there's  nothing."  My  wave  of 
assurance  was  possibly  a  little  overdone. 

"Over  there,"  he  muttered,  jerking  his  head 
toward  the  shore  lights.  ' '  Something  swimming. ' ' 

I  moved  to  the  corner  of  the  house  and  listened. 

"River  thieves,"  I  argued.  "The  place  is 
full  of—" 

"Ridgeway.    Look  behind  you!" 

Perhaps  it  is  the  pavements — but  no  matter; 
I  am  not  ordinarily  a  jumping  sort.  And  yet 
there  was  something  in  the  quality  of  that  voice 
beyond  my  shoulder  that  brought  the  sweat 
stinging  through  the  pores  of  my  scalp  even 
while  I  was  in  the  act  of  turning. 

A  cat  sat  there  on  the  hatch,  expressionless  and 
immobile  in  the  gloom. 

I  did  not  say  anything.     I  turned  and  went 

204 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

below.  McCord  was  there  already,  standing  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  table.  After  a  moment  or 
so  the  cat  followed  and  sat  on  her  haunches  at 
the  foot  of  the  ladder  and  stared  at  us  without 
winking. 

"I  think  she  wants  something  to  eat,"  I  said 
to  McCord. 

He  lit  a  lantern  and  went  out  into  the  galley. 
Returning  with  a  chunk  of  salt  beef,  he  threw  it 
into  the  farther  corner.  The  cat  went  over  and 
began  to  tear  at  it,  her  muscles  playing  with  con 
vulsive  shadow-lines  under  the  sagging  yellow 
hide. 

And  now  it  was  she  who  listened,  to  something 
beyond  the  reach  of  even  McCord's  faculties, 
her  neck  stiff  and  her  ears  flattened.  I  looked  at 
McCord  and  found  him  brooding  at  the  animal 
with  a  sort  of  listless  malevolence.  u  Quick! 
She  has  kittens  somewhere  about. "  I  shook  his 
elbow  sharply.  "When  she  starts,  now— 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  he  mumbled. 
"It  wouldn't  be  any  use." 

She  had  turned  now  and  was  making  for  the 
ladder  with  the  soundless  agility  of  her  race.  I 
grasped  McCord 's  wrist  and  dragged  him  after 
me,  the  lantern  banging  against  his  knees.  When 
we  came  up  the  cat  was  already  amidships,  a 
scarcely  discernible  shadow  at  the  margin  of  our 
lantern's  ring.  She  stopped  and  looked  back  at 
us  with  her  luminous  eyes,  appeared  to  hesitate, 
uneasy  at  our  pursuit  of  her,  shifted  here  and 

205 


LAND'S  END 

there  with  quick,  soft  bounds,  and  stopped  to 
fawn  with  her  back  arched  at  the  foot  of  the 
mast.  Then  she  was  off  with  an  amazing  sudden 
ness  into  the  shadows  forward. 

" Lively  now!"  I  yelled  at  McCord.  He  came 
pounding  along  behind  me,  still  protesting  that 
it  was  of  no  use.  Abreast  of  the  foremast  I  took 
the  lantern  from  him  to  hold  above  my  head. 

"You  see,"  he  complained,  peering  here  and 
there  over  the  illuminated  deck.  "I  tell  you, 
Ridgeway,  this  thing — "  But  my  eyes  were  in 
another  quarter,  and  I  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"An  engineer — an  engineer  to  the  core,"  I 
cried  at  him.  "Look  aloft,  man." 

Our  quarry  was  almost  to  the  cross-trees, 
clambering  up  the  shrouds  with  a  smartness  no 
sailor  has  ever  come  to,  her  yellow  body,  cut  by 
the  moving  shadows  of  the  ratlines,  a  queer  sight 
against  the  mat  of  the  night.  McCord  closed  his 
mouth  and  opened  it  again  for  two  words:  "By 
gracious!"  The  following  instant  he  had  the 
lantern  and  was  after  her.  I  watched  him  go  up 
above  my  head — a  ponderous,  swaying  climber 
into  the  sky — come  to  the  cross-trees,  and  squat 
there  with  his  knees  clamped  around  the  mast. 
The  clear  star  of  the  lantern  shot  this  way  and 
that  for  a  moment,  then  it  disappeared,  and  in  its 
place  there  sprang  out  a  bag  of  yellow  light, 
like  a  fire-balloon  at  anchor  in  the  heavens.  I 
could  see  the  shadows  of  his  head  and  hands 

206 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

moving  monstrously  over  the  inner  surface  of  the 
sail,  and  muffled  exclamations  without  meaning 
came  down  to  me.  After  a  moment  he  drew  out 
his  head  and  called:  "All  right — they're  here. 
Heads!  there  below!" 

I  ducked  at  his  warning,  and  something 
spanked  on  the  planking  a  yard  from  my  feet. 
I  stepped  over  to  the  vague  blur  on  the  deck  and 
picked  up  a  slipper — a  slipper  covered  with  some 
woven  straw  stuff  and  soled  with  a  matted  felt, 
perhaps  a  half-inch  thick.  Another  struck  some 
where  abaft  the  mast,  and  then  McCord  reap 
peared  above  and  began  to  stagger  down  the 
shrouds.  Under  his  left  arm  he  hugged  a  curi 
ous  assortment  of  litter,  a  sheaf  of  papers,  a 
brace  of  revolvers,  a  gray  kimono,  and  a  soiled 
apron. 

"Well,"  he  said  when  he  had  come  to  deck, 
"I  feel  like  a  man  who  has  gone  to  hell  and  come 
back  again.  You  know  I'd  come  to  the  place 
where  I  really  believed  that  about  the  cat. 
When  you  think  of  it—  By  gracious!  we  haven't 
come  so  far  from  the  jungle,  after  all." 

We  went  aft  and  below  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  as  we  had  been.  McCord  broke  a  pro 
longed  silence. 

"I'm  sort  of  glad  he  got  away — poor  cuss! 
He's  probably  climbing  up  a  wharf  this  minute, 
shivering  and  scared  to  death.  Over  toward  the 
gas-tanks,  by  the  way  he  was  swimming.  By 
gracious!  now  that  the  world's  turned  over 

207 


LAND'S  END 

straight  again,  I  feel  I  could  sleep  a  solid  week. 
Poor  cuss!  can  you  imagine  him,  Ridgeway — " 

"Yes,"  I  broke  in.  "I  think  I  can.  He  must 
have  lost  his  nerve  when  he  made  out  your 
smoke  and  shinnied  up  there  to  stow  away, 
taking  the  ship's  papers  with  him.  He  would 
have  attached  some  profound  importance  to 
them — remember,  the  '  barbarian,'  eight  thousand 
miles  from  home.  Probably  couldn't  read  a 
word.  I  suppose  the  cat  followed  him — the 
traditional  source  of  food.  He  must  have  wanted 
water  badly." 

"I  should  say!  He  wouldn't  have  taken  the 
chances  he  did." 

"Well,"  I  announced,  "at  any  rate,  I  can  say 
it  now — there's  another  'mystery  of  the  sea' 
gone  to  pot." 

McCord  lifted  his  heavy  lids. 

"No,"  he  mumbled.  "The  mystery  is  that  a 
man  who  has  been  to  sea  all  his  life  could  sail 
around  for  three  days  with  a  man  bundled  up  in 
his  top  and  not  know  it.  When  I  think  of  him 
peeking  down  at  me — and  playing  off  that  damn 
cat — probably  without  realizing  it — scared  to 
death — by  gracious!  Ridgeway,  there  was  a 
pair  of  funks  aboard  this  craft,  eh?  Wow — yow 
—I  could  sleep— 

"I  should  think  you  could." 

McCord  did  not  answer. 

"By  the  way,"  I  speculated.  "I  guess  you 
were  right  about  Bjornsen,  McCord — that  is, 

208 


THE    YELLOW    CAT 

his  fooling  with   the  foretop.     He  must  have 
been  caught  all  of  a  bunch,  eh?" 

Again  McCord  failed  to  answer.  I  looked  up, 
mildly  surprised,  and  found  his  head  hanging 
back  over  his  chair  and  his  mouth  opened  wide. 
He  was  asleep. 

14 


A  MAN'S  A  FOOL 

OURE,  I  know  I  could  do  better  by  myself, 

0  only  I  think  I'll  stay  here  to  work  on  the 
railroad   track   near   this   town.     You   see   the 
steeple  through  the  trees  there  by  the  water- 
tank.     And  then  when  the  whistle  blows  I  can 
walk  in  to  the  town  and  maybe  I  will  see  that 
woman  on  the  street  again. 

What?  Well,  that  Lisbon  woman  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  about.  And  maybe  I'll  laugh.  When 

1  come  here  to  find  her  I  was  savage  enough,  but 
then  when  I  see  her  on  the  street  I  couldn't  do 
it.    Because  I  see  I  would  be  doing  her  a  favor  to 
hurt  her,  the  way  she  is  now,  and  all  I  could  do 
was  laugh — like  I  done  that  time  when  I  set 
beside  my  brother  Raphael. 

What?  No,  thank  you,  sir.  I  know  I  could 
do  better  by  myself.  Yes,  sure,  I  know  more 
than  these  other  fellows  in  the  gang,  because 
they  are  mostly  people  from  Bulgar  and  Turkey 
and  such  places,  and  I  am  a  Portugee  fellow. 
No,  but  not  a  Lisbon;  them  Lisbons  is  as  bad 
as  Bulgars,  almost.  No,  I  am  an  Island  fellow, 

from  the  Azores,  sir.    My  father  he  had  a  good 

210 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

stone  house  in  Flores  and  three  shares  in  a  vessel 
to  the  Banks,  and  I  and  my  brother  went  to 
priest-school.  And  another  thing,  I  am  an 
American  citizen  a  good  many  years ;  I  have  voted 
for  President  and  I  am  good  to  read  and  write 
English.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  I  would  be  a 
pretty  rich  fellow,  I  and  my  brother,  that  is, 
because  when  we  was  here  only  a  couple  of  years 
together  we  had  the  largest  flounder-dredger 
fishing  out  of  Provincetown,  and  sometimes  we 
would  gain  sixty  to  seventy  dollars  a  week,  the 
two  of  us.  Only  now  I  don't  care  because  I 
know  a  man's  a  fool,  sir.  And  when  I  see  that 
Lisbon  woman  dragging  on  the  street  some  night 
again  I  think  I'll  just  laugh,  like  I  done  that 
time  setting  beside  my  brother. 

You  never  see  my  brother  Raphael.  You  don't 
know.  You  look  at  me  and  you  see  I'm  heavy- 
built  and  kind  of  ugly  in  the  face.  But  Raphael 
he  took  after  my  mother,  so  you  wouldn't  know 
to  look  at  us  we  was  any  relations.  When  I  was 
in  America  a  year,  down  there  in  Provincetown, 
and  I  sent  for  my  brother  to  come,  too,  and  when 
he  got  there  and  I  was  on  the  dock  and  give  him 
a  kiss  on  the  cheeks,  people  laughed  and  says, 
"We  never  knew  you  had  gone  to  work  and  sent 
for  a  woman  already,  John  Prada." 

But,  no,  sir,  he  wasn't  a  woman  by  any  means. 
It  was  only  the  soft  skin  and  the  big  eyes  and 
the  long  curly  hair,  and  when  I  got  him  a  hair^ 

cut  you  wouldn't  say  he  was  a  woman;  I  should 

211 


LAND'S  END 

say  not.  They  think  he  was  scared,  but  he  was 
only  homesick.  He  wasn't  like  some  of  them 
fellows  who  wouldn't  care  if  they  was  home  or  in 
China;  he  had  some  feelings.  And  the  worst 
thing,  we  had  to  go  live  in  that  Lisbon  boarding- 
house,  because  the  St.  Michel's  and  Diolda 
Viera's  and  the  other  Island  houses  was  full  up, 
and  my  brother  was  kind  of  a  clean  fellow,  and 
if  you  know  what  that  Lisbon  boarding-house 
was  like,  sir!  It's  all  right  in  a  vessel  on  a  trip, 
where  you  look  for  it.  But  when  you  get  ashore 
after  a  trip  you  want  something  different. 

I  remember  one  night  Raphael  couldn't  sleep. 
I  feel  him  getting  out  of  bed  and  then  I  see  him 
standing  at  the  window,  and  after  a  while  I  get 
up  and  come  over  to  see  what  he  was  looking  at. 
It  was  the  full  of  the  moon,  sir,  and  I  had  to  say 
it  wasn't  like  the  Islands,  where  everything's 
green,  with  nice  stone  walls  and  colored  houses. 
There  wasn't  much  to  see  here  excepting  the 
side  of  a  sand-dune  coming  down  on  top  of  the 
house,  with  a  bedtick  laying  on  it  like  a  dead 
animal  and  the  top  of  a  dead  tree  sticking  out. 
And  beyond  the  hill  you  could  see  Matheson's 
freezer  over  on  the  shore  like  a  big  box  made  of 
concrete,  with  a  high  concrete  chimney  and 
smoke  coming  out  of  it  straight  into  the  air, 
black  as  ink  in  that  white  moonlight. 

I  didn't  say  nothing  till  he  did. 

"But  we  can  gain  a  lot  of  money  here,  can't 
we,  John?"  says  he. 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

"Sure  we  can,"  says  I.  "I  and  you  will  be 
pretty  rich  men." 

"We  wouldn't  need  to  gain  so  very  much," 
says  he,  "so  we  could  go  back  to  the  Islands  and 
have  a  good  house  and  some  shares  in  a  vessel 
and  live  there  as  good  as  our  father,  if  not  better. 
You  know  Domingo  Tarvis  will  die  pretty  quick, 
and  you  know  what  a  nice  scene  it  is  from  his 
house  with  the  flowers  and  market  there  and  then 
the  water?" 

I  see  he  was  crying,  and  I  put  one  arm  around 
his  neck. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  says  I.  "It's  too  hot  for 
you  in  this  room  and  it  stinks  too  bad."  It  was 
quite  a  small  room  and  there  was  eight  fellows 
sleeping  there  in  their  socks,  same  as  on  a  vessel, 
and  an  air-tight  stove.  "I  tell  you,"  says  I, 
"I'll  open  this  window  a  crack  and  we'll  get  a 
blanket  and  cover  up  and  you'll  feel  more  like." 

That's  what  we  done,  and  I  think  it  would 
have  gone  fine,  only  a  fellow  by  name  of  Ventura 
woke  up  and  feel  the  draught. 

"Who  the  hell?"  says  he,  and  he  got  up  and 
shut  the  window  down. 

That  made  me  mad.  I  was  going  to  show 
him  a  thing,  only  Raphael  feel  me  and  I  hear  him 
begging  into  my  ear: 

"For  Mother  of  God,  John,  don't  wake  them  up. 
I  don't  care,  if  only  you  don't  wake  them  up." 

And  so  I  lay  and  took  it  and  left  the  dirty 
Lisbons  snore. 

213 


LAND'S  END 

That  was  the  largest  mistake,  sir,  to  have  to 
go  live  at  that  Lisbon  boarding-house  at  all. 
And  another  was  when  we  never  shift  somewheres 
else  when  we  could  have  had  the  chance,  because 
we  was  so  busy  all  the  time  and  we  done  so  good 
and  got  a  fellow  in  one  of  the  freezers  to  put  us 
up  a  power-boat  of  our  own  to  go  floundering  in, 
and  now,  as  I  and  my  brother  both  says,  we 
would  gain  enough  to  make  us  rich  in  the  Is 
lands  in  no  time  at  all. 

Some  of  them  Lisbons  done  good,  too,  and 
some  of  them  begin  to  think  about  women. 
There  was  three  of  them  in  that  room  where  we 
bunked,  Ventura  and  a  fellow  we  call  Scoury 
Jack  and  an  old  man  by  name  of  Sousa  who  had 
buried  three  in  the  old  country.  They  all  sail 
in  the  same  crew,  and  when  they  was  home  from 
a  trip  you  could  hear  them  laying  awake  in  the 
dark  talking  about  it  and  wishing  and  figuring 
up  what  it  would  cost  to  send  across  for  some 
women,  enough  to  drive  a  man  out  of  his  head  to 
lay  quiet  and  hear  them.  And  one  night  when 
they  had  talked  it  all  over  again  they  decided 
on  it  to  send  across  for  three  women,  and  I 
couldn't  sleep  the  rest  of  that  night. 

I  tell  you,  I  hate  to  tell  my  brother.  He  must 
have  took  note  of  me  that  morning,  because  he 
says: 

"Look  here,  John,  what's  wrong?" 

I  tell  him  nothing  was  wrong  at  all.  But  just 
the  same  it  keep  at  me  and  I  couldn't  get  away 

214 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

from  it.  It  was  just  a  little  after  sunrise  and  we 
was  jogging  along,  with  our  dredge  on  the  bot 
tom,  about  two  mile  to  the  south'rd  of  the  Race, 
me  standing  the  wheel  and  my  brother  cleaning 
the  fish  we'd  fetched  up  in  our  first  dredge. 

"Raphael,"  says  I,  as  if  I  was  just  thinking 
of  it,  "a  fellow's  only  going  to  be  young  once  in 
his  lifetime.  Ain't  that  so?" 

"That's  right,"  says  he,  kind  of  laughing. 
"Raphael,"  says  I,  "did  you  hear  them  fellows 
talking  last  night,  Scoury  Jack  and  Ventura  and 
the  old  man?  The  three  of  them  is  going  to  send 
over  for  three  women- 
He  start  to  laugh  again,  and  then  he  leave 
off.  I  had  to  turn  my  head  and  give  him  a  look. 
It  was  one  of  them  red  mornings  like  you'll  see 
when  the  weather's  coming  on  to  be  bad.  And 
there  I  see  him  standing  on  the  deck  in  that  red 
light,  going  up  and  down  against  the  sky,  and  his 
oilers  and  his  arms  to  the  elbows  running  blood, 
and  a  bloody  knife  in  one  hand  and  a  big  bloody 
haddock  in  the  other,  and  a  look  on  his  face  like 
a  kid  that  never  know  why  he'd  been  kicked. 

That  kind  of  fetched  me  up.  The  engine  was 
skipping,  and  I  was  glad  of  it  and  stick  my  head 
down  the  hatch.  And  now  I  tell  you  a  funny 
thing.  I  decide  on  it  the  only  thing  was  to  just 
laugh  it  off.  But  when  I  get  my  head  out  it 
seem  like  there  was  some  kind  of  a  devil  inside  of 
me,  and  in  place  of  laughing  it  off  I  says: 

"Look  here,  maybe  it  would  cost  a  little  money. 
215 


LAND'S  END 

but  what's  the  odds  to  you  if  it  come  out  of  my 
shares?  Eh?" 

But  he  wouldn't  say  a  word.  ...  I  hove  to 
and  we  hoisted  the  dredge  aboard,  a  good  eleven 
barrel  of  flounders  this  time,  and  that  was  enough. 
We  put  for  Wood  End,  cleaning  and  icing  down  as 
we  come  along  on  top  of  the  tide.  And  all  the 
time  I  keep  looking  at  him  out  of  the  edge  of  an 
eye  and  wishing  he'd  say  something  or  do  some 
thing  and  not  keep  looking  at  the  sky-line  astern 
of  us  like  a  fellow  in  a  dream.  That's  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  couldn't  get  at  my  brother. 
Seem  like  some  kind  of  a  glass  wall  had  come 
between  us,  so  I  couldn't  come  at  him  no  matter 
how  I  went  about  it.  By  and  by  I  couldn't  stand 
it  no  longer  to  see  my  brother  like  that,  and  I 
come  over  and  give  him  a  good  lick  on  the  back, 
and  I  says: 

"God  alive,  Raphael,  what  you  think?  Don't 
you  know  I  was  only  joking?"  says  I. 

And  when  I  see  the  light  come  back  on  his 
face  it  was  like  something  had  fall  off  my  back  all 
of  a  sudden,  and  there  I  was  on  tiptoe  and  there 
was  the  surf  pounding  up  white  on  the  Point  and 
the  gulls  hollering  all  around  the  sky  and  my 
brother  Raphael  wiping  the  back  of  a  wrist 
across  his  eyes. 

"I  should  think  so,"  says  he.  "There's  plenty 
better  women  in  the  Islands.  Ain't  there,  John?" 

"And  time  enough  to  think  of  them,"  says  I, 

"when  we  get  there." 

216 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

"When  you  imagine  them  dirty  Lisbons," 
says  he. 

And  so  we  come  breezing  up  to  the  freezer 
dock,  feeling  good. 

And  that's  all  right,  sir;  it's  fine  to  feel  that 
way.  But  it's  another  thing  with  night  coming 
on  again  and  the  idea  edging  back  and  edging 
back  into  your  head  what  you've  gone  and 
passed  up.  And  that  night  when  the  three  got 
to  talking  about  it  in  the  dark  again — how  the 
old  man  was  going  to  have  a  fat  one  and  the  other 
two  want  a  trigger  kind  of  woman  so  as  to  look 
good  on  the  street — when  I  hear  them  carrying 
on  that  way  I  couldn't  no  more  lay  quiet  than  I 
could  fly.  When  I  see  my  brother  was  asleep 
I  come  over  and  set  on  the  bottom  of  Scoury 
Jack's  tick,  and  by  and  by  I  says  for  them  to 
put  me  down  for  one  too. 

Well,  sir — I  don't  know.  ...  I  hired  me  a 
house  up  to  the  west'rd,  all  Portugee  people  in 
that  street  and  quite  handy  to  our  mooring,  and 
in  our  spare  time  I  and  my  brother  rigged  it  all 
up  and  varnished  it  up  and  eveiything  right. 
I  never  asked  him  to,  you  understand.  And  he 
never  says  anything;  just  turn  up  with  a  brush  or 
a  hammer  and  went  at  it  with  his  eyes  on  his  boots, 
and  never  a  smile  or  a  joke  out  of  him.  As  I  re 
member,  the  first  word  I  had  out  of  him  all  that 
time  was  the  day  I  says  to  him,  kind  of  offhand : 

"Well,  look  here  now,  and  which  will  be  your 
room,  Raphael,  old  boy?" 

217 


LAND'S  END 

"My  room?"  says  he,  letting  everything  go  and 
raising  up.  But  then  he  wouldn't  look  at  me 
and  I  see  his  face  as  red  as  a  girl. 

"Look  here,"  says  I,  laying  hold  of  his  arm. 
"Course  you  know — " 

But  he  got  away  from  me  and  run  out  of  the 
room,  and  by  and  by  when  I  come  after  him  I 
find  him  with  his  head  up  against  the  door  in 
the  woodhouse,  crying.  I  never  could  make 
him  out,  that  way.  Only  of  course  you  got  to 
remember  he  wasn't  hardly  more  than  a  kid. 

Well,  that's  the  first  word  I  had  out  of  him, 
and  the  last,  too,  and  that  was  the  last  time  he 
give  me  a  hand  with  the  house,  and  a  week  wasn't 
out  before  fellows  I  know  begin  asking  me, 
"What's  the  matter  between  you  and  Raphael, 
John?"  And  I  couldn't  tell  them.  .  .  . 

Well,  all  right.  When  the  four  of  them  come 
finally,  with  their  tickets  pinned  on  their  dresses, 
we  got  married  to  the  women  in  the  church  there, 
I  and  Ventura  and  Scoury  Jack  and  the  old  man. 
Afterward  we  had  cake  and  wine  at  the  priest's 
house,  and  then  we  take  them  off  home,  every 
man  his  own  ways,  and  Ventura  and  Scoury  Jack 
looking  pretty  sour,  too,  because  I  come  into  it 
last  after  it  was  all  fixed  up,  so  to  speak,  and  me 
an  Islander  to  boot,  and  then  this  one  I  draw, 
this  Mary  Cabral,  turn  out  with  the  best- 
looking  face  and  figure  in  the  lot.  She  was 
handsome,  sir. 

Well,  a  man  is  a  fool,  that's  all  I  can  say. 
218 


A    MAN'S   A    FOOL 

For  a  month  after  that,  I  guess,  I  wasn't  any 
thing  like  myself.  You  never  see  a  woman  like 
that,  sir.  You'll  say  I  might  have  know,  to  fetch 
over  a  piece  like  that,  sight-unseen  and  no  turning 
back,  out  of  a  town  like  Lisbon.  But  it's  just 
that  a  man  is  a  fool.  Do  you  know  what? 
After  the  first  couple  of  days  that  house  of  mine 
was  like  a  pig-pen,  and  when  I  finally  put  it  up 
to  her,  kind  of  offhand,  why  didn't  she  cook  up 
something  or  other  good,  she  says  why  didn't  I 
get  some  girl  in  to  do  the  cooking? 

Imagine  that,  sir.  And  then  when  she  see  my 
face  she  shift  her  course,  come  and  put  her  arms 
around  my  neck  and  her  face  close  to  mine, 
and  make  her  lips  up  like  a  red  flower,  and  half 
close  her  eyes,  and  says  to  me,  says  she : 

"Me?  Cook?  You  look  at  me,  you  big  hand 
some  fellow  you,  and  you  talk  to  me  about — 
cooking!" 

Sometimes  she  get  me  so  I  didn't  care  for 
a  couple  of  days  at  a  time  if  the  house  and 
the  boat  and  my  brother  and  the  whole  world 
even  should  go  to  hell.  And  that's  the  way 
I  was. 

Only  sometimes  I  come  to  myself  and  feel 
ashamed;  sometimes  I  look  at  her,  going  around 
the  house  in  her  dirty  shift  and  her  hair  stringing 
down  her  back,  and  I  feel  disgusted  with  every 
thing.  It  wasn't  only  she  was  too  lazy  to  do  the 
house;  she  was  even  too  lazy  to  dress  herself. 
And  that  even  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  she  would 

219 


LAND'S  END 

have  kept  in  the  house,  out  of  people's  sight. 
But  no.  I  tell  you  I've  see  her  out  leaning  over 
the  fence  with  not  half  her  clothes  on,  passing 
talk  with  Frank  Lopez  on  his  way  up  to  his  store 
in  the  back  street,  and  his  own  woman  watching 
it  all  from  her  gate  down  the  line.  Or  I've  see 
her  hollering  across  the  back  way  to  some  Lisbon 
woman  she  used  to  know  over  there,  and  they'd 
ask  her  what  she  think  this  was — Silvado's  place 
in  Lisbon?  And  then  she  give  it  to  them. 

"You — !"  she  yell,  and  the  names  she  give 
them!  "You  shut  up,  because  I  know  a  few 
things  about  you!" 

"You  shut  up  yourself!"  they  give  her  back. 
"If  we  was  to  go  to  work  and  tell  your  old  man 
half  the  things  we  know  about  you,  Wild  Mary! 
If  we  was  to  tell  him!" 

Imagine  that,  sir.  Imagine  I  had  to  stand 
inside  and  listen  to  her  making  a  disgrace  of 
herself  and  me,  and  afraid  to  go  out  and  get  her 
for  fear  the  children  would  yell  at  me  to  take  my 
woman  in  and  dress  her — little  kids  six  and  eight 
year  old — and  me  leaning  my  head  on  the  door 
there  and  saying  to  myself:  "Pm  going  down  to 
hell!  Tm  going  down  to  hell!" 

One  day  I  see  things  queer.  One  day  she  come 
bouncing  in  with  her  hair  on  end  and  her  eyes 
sticking  out  with  one  of  them  tongue-fights,  and 
I  just  stand  there  and  look  at  her. 

"O  my  God!"  says  she,  hauling  back  from  me. 

I  just  look  at  her. 

220 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

"Don't!"  she  yell,  and  she  put  her  hands  up. 

I  never  touch  her — just  a  little  push — and  she 
went  down  backward  over  a  chair  and  fetched 
up  against  the  stove.    It  never  burnt  her  a  mite, 
not  a  mite,  sir,  but  she  set  up  a  scream  like  she  was 
slaughtered.    I  turn  and  walk  straight  out  of  the 
house  and  down  the  street,  and  I  come  to  the 
shore-front. 

"  Where's  my  brother?"  I  asked  some  Lisbons 
tarring  twine  there. 

II  Where  do  you  suppose?"  says  one  of  them. 
"  Dredging." 

"Who's  he  got  to  go?"  says  I. 

"That  St.  Michel's,  Tony  Miers.    Why?" 

They  all  look  at  the  sky  and  I  see  they  was 
grinning.  I  see  I  ought  to  show  them  a  thing, 
only  there  was  no  heart  inside  of  me,  and  I  come 
down  and  set  on  the  beach  and  wait. 

I  set  a  long  while.  The  sun  was  going  down  and 
the  full  moon  just  heaving  clear;  I  see  it  running 
toward  me  across  the  puddles  on  the  flats.  I  see 
the  Flores  coming  up  along,  kicking  up  a  little 
feather,  and  my  brother  Raphael  in  the  bow  to 
pick  up  the  mooring.  I  see  him  and  the  St. 
Michel's  coming  off  in  the  dory.  I  see  them 
aground  at  the  low- water,  and  then  I  see  my 
brother  coming  toward  me  across  the  flats. 
Everything  was  turned  the  color  of  lilacs.  I 
tell  you,  sir,  my  brother  looked  to  me  more  like 
some  kind  of  an  angel  than  anything  else,  coming 
toward  me  in  that  queer,  shiny  wind. 

221 


LAND'S  END 

Then  he  see  me  for  the  first  time  and  he 
stopped.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  get  up  and  I  turn 
away,  and  I  come  back  up  along  my  street  and  I 
set  down  on  my  step  and  I  wish  I  was  dead. 

I  put  my  head  in  my  hands  and  shut  my  eyes, 
and  I  still  see  my  brother  coming  toward  me  in 
that  lilac-colored  wind  with  the  water  behind; 
and  I  think  of  the  shore  below  our  father's  house 
in  Flores,  and  all  the  Island  girls  I  and  him  know. 
And  I  hear  the  freezer  whistle  blowing;  I  hear  it 
tearing  around  through  the  roofs  and  streets, 
and  there's  no  whistle  like  that  in  Flores.  I  hear 
people's  feet  passing  by  the  gate.  Some  of  them 
give  me  a  word,  but  I  never  answer.  It  was 
coming  on  dark.  All  of  a  sudden  I  jerk  up  my 
head  and  look,  and  there  was  my  brother  stand 
ing  inside  the  gate. 

"  Hello,  John !"  says  he. 

" Hello,  Raphael!"  says  I. 

I  see  him  shaking  all  over  like  a  dead  leaf,  and 
I  says:  " Don't,  Raphael!  For  God's  sake 
don't!" 

And  there  we  was  on  the  walk,  me  with  my 
arm  around  his  neck  and  him  carrying  on  like  it 
was  him  had  done  something  in  place  of  me. 
And  all  I  could  think  to  say  was,  "  Don't, 
Raphael,  for  God's  sake!" 

The  moon  come  over  a  roof  and  where  we  stand 
it  was  pale  as  a  dead  man's  body.  I  look  in  my 
brother's  face.  He  seem  a  mite  poorer  in  the 
cheeks  and  his  mustache  was  beginning  to  show, 

222 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

but  he  still  had  them  eyes  like  a  little  boy, 
bashful  and  full  of  tears. 

"God  damn  me!"  says  I. 

"No,  no!"  says  he. 

"Yes,  yes!"  says  I. 

He  never  answer  that  time.  I  see  him  drop 
his  eyes  and  get  red,  and  when  I  turn  my  head 
I  see  my  woman  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Hello!"  says  she,  as  sweet  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  "Who's  that,  John?" 

"That?"  says  I.  I  don't  know  why  it  was,  but 
I  seem  to  go  cold  all  over.  "That?  Why — why 
—that's  a — fellow,"  says  I. 

Then  it  seem  like  I'd  hit  my  brother,  and  I  see 
by  his  face  he  didn't  understand,  and,  after  all, 
how  could  you  expect  him  to? 

"That?"  says  I,  again.  "  Why,  that's  my— my 
brother." 

"Oh!"  says  she,  hardly  over  her  breath.  She 
give  a  kind  of  pat  to  her  hair  and  I  see  her  coming 
down  the  step.  She  come  and  stood  beside  me 
and  she  look  in  my  brother's  face. 

"Oh!"  says  she,  again,  the  same  way,  hardly 
over  her  breath.  "Oh,  but  he's  a  handsome 
boy!  He's  a  handsome  boy."  She  put  out  a 
hand  and  laid  it  on  his  arm,  and  he  look  at  me 
and  then  at  the  ground  under  him,  not  knowing 
whether  to  go  red  or  white. 

"Your  brother?"  says  she.  "That  makes  him 
my  brother,  too,  and  I  think  I  should  give  him  a 
kiss  then." 

223 


LAND'S  END 

And  she  lift  up  his  face  with  her  hand  and  give 
him  a  kiss  on  the  mouth  and  a  look  out  of  them 
eyes.  And  what  could  anybody  say? 

Then  she  turn  and  put  her  arm  around  my 
neck  and  pet  me  and  says  we  would  have  him 
in  for  a  bite  of  supper,  of  course. 

"No,"  says  my  brother,  looking  every  which 
way.  "No,  thanks.  I  got  to  go  down-street— 

"John/'  says  she,  "don't  you  listen  to  him. 
Come  on  fetch  him  in."  And  there  she  was 
already  ahold  of  his  other  arm.  And  what 
could  I  do?  It  was  my  house  and  he  was  my 
brother. 

I  tell  you  the  truth,  when  we  come  in  there  I 
was  ashamed  to  have  my  brother  see  what  my 
house  looked  like,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  see  what 
kind  of  a  supper  she  got  up  for  us.  But  do  you 
imagine  she  was  ashamed?  Not  a  bit  of  it,  not 
a  bit  of  it.  You'd  think  she  run  a  palace. 

And  the  way  she  carry  on;  the  way  she  make 
of  me!  Nothing  would  do,  whenever  she  come 
anywhere  near  me,  but  I  was  to  have  a  pet  or  a 
kiss.  She  got  up  even  when  we  was  at  table  and 
come  around  and  set  down  in  my  lap  and  laid 
her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  feel  her  cheek  on 
mine.  She  could  make  me  foolish  over  her,  I  got 
to  say  it. 

But  it  made  me  ashamed,  all  the  same,  to  have 
her  carry  orf  that  way  before  my  brother.  He 
wasn't  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  remember.  His 
face  was  like  a  fire  and  he  couldn't  tell  what  to 

224 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

do  with  his  eyes,  like  he  was  saying  to  himself, 
"What  they  got  me  into  here,  anyhow?"  He 
look  at  his  plate  and  at  the  lamp  and  then  he 
look  at  her  on  my  shoulder,  and  he  keep  looking 
at  her  like  he  couldn't  get  his  eyes  off. 

I  turn  my  head  sideways  to  see.  Well,  sir, 
was  she  looking  at  me?  Was  she  thinking  a 
thing  about  me?  No,  sir,  she  was  looking 
straight  into  my  brother  Raphael's  eyes,  with 
her  cheeks  red  and  her  mouth  parted  a  little — 
and  it  all  come  over  me. 

"Get  up!"  I  says  to  her,  and  I  didn't  say  it 
too  loud. 

I  get  up  too.  I  see  my  brother  get  up  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table  with  one  hand  to  his  head. 
My  woman  give  me  one  look  and  then  she  began 
to  back  off,  but  I  took  a  good  hold  on  her  wrist. 

"Mother  of  God!"  says  she.  "Don't!"  She 
put  up  her  arm  to  guard,  and  I  hear  her  screech 
like  that:  "Don't!  don't!  My  God!" 

"Your  what?"  says  I.  And  then  I  let  her  have 
it  between  the  eyes. 

I  see  her  going  backward  and  I  see  her  fetch 
up  in  my  brother's  arms  all  of  a  heap.  I  see  him 
standing  there  looking  every  which  way,  red  as 
a  beet  and  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  her,  and 
her  hair  all  sprawled  over  his  neck  and  her 
fingers  clawing  at  his  two  cheeks.  And  I  hear 
her  weeping  and  wailing  to  him:  "Don't  let 
him — don't  let  him  hurt  me  no  more,  Raphael. 
Don't  let  him  hurt  me  no  more — " 

15  225 


LAND'S  END 

I  give  a  kind  of  laugh  and  walk  out  of  the 
house  and  leave  them  there.  At  the  gate  I  see 
Frank  Lopez  hanging  around  on  his  way  down 
from  his  store,  and  I  ask  him  what  he  want. 

"  No  thing,"  says  he,  and  he  lick  his  lip  kind  of 
nervous. 

"Good  night/'  says  I. 

He  come  as  far  as  the  corner  of  the  next  yard, 
and  then  he  start  to  hang  around  again  till  he  see 
me  watching  him,  when  he  made  off  home. 
After  a  minute  my  brother  come  out  of  the  house. 
We  stand  there  a  spell  with  our  hands  in  our 
pockets,  looking  at  the  moon  and  the  yellow 
windows  stringing  down  the  street,  not  saying 
anything.  What  was  there  to  say?  It  wasn't 
his  fault,  none  of  what  had  happened. 

When  he  went  I  walk  as  far  as  the  back  street 
with  him,  and  there  I  says  good  night.  He  says 
good  night  too,  but  yet  he  wouldn't  look  at  me, 
not  till  he  got  to  the  top  of  the  back-street  hill. 
And  there  I  see  him  turn  and  give  me  a  look, 
his  face  the  color  of  the  moon. 

I  sleep  on  the  sofa  in  the  front  room  that  night. 
At  three  in  the  morning  I  was  on  the  beach  to 
meet  Raphael  and  we  let  the  St.  Michel's  go, 
and  I  come  back  to  my  fishing  again. 

We  never  says  much  to  each  other  them  days, 
I  and  my  brother.  It  was  something,  and  yet 
you  couldn't  lay  hand  on  it.  For  one  thing, 
we  never  talk  about  the  Islands  same  as  we  used 
to,  and  we  was  always  so  busy  with  the  dredge 

226 


A    MAN'S   A    FOOL 

or  the  engine  we  never  have  time  to  give  each 
other  a  good  square  look.  It  used  to  be,  when 
ever  anything  come  across  my  brother's  mind, 
he  couldn't  no  more  keep  it  from  me  than  he 
could  fly.  But  now  it  come  over  me  one  morning, 
when  I  see  him  standing  the  wheel  with  his  eyes 
fixed  away  from  me  and  looking  at  nothing  at 
all  over  on  the  sky-line — it  come  over  me  all  of  a 
sudden  that  my  brother  Raphael  had  grow  up. 

It  give  me  an  awful  feeling,  sir.  It  fetched  me 
up  all-standing.  I  couldn't  help  myself,  but  I 
come  and  throw  one  arm  around  my  brother's 
neck  like  I  used  to — and  then  I  never  know  what 
to  say. 

That  afternoon  when  we  come  in,  who  should 
I  see  but  my  woman  down  to  the  beach  to  meet 
me.  I  could  have  beat  her,  to  do  a  foolish  thing 
like  that  with  all  them  fellows  mending  gear  on 
the  wharf,  and  her  with  that  blue  spot  not  wore 
off  yet  between  her  eyes  where  I  give  it  to  her. 
It  made  me  ashamed. 

We  haul  up  the  dory,  and  I  says  good-by  to 
my  brother,  and  I  walk  up  to  my  woman  and  I 
says,  "Look  here,  what's  wrong?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing!"  says  she.  "It  was 
just  I  couldn't  hardly  wait  for  you,  John,"  says 
she.  And  then  I  see  her  looking  over  my  shoulder 
and  she  says:  "Why,  there's  your  brother! 
Only  you'd  think  he  was  no  relations  to  us  at  all, 
the  way  he  never  comes  and  drops  in  on  us. 

Look  here,  John,  why  don't  you  fetch  him  along 

227 


LAND'S  END 

now  to  have  a  bite  of  supper  with  us  to-night? 
.  .  .  What  do  you  say,  stranger?' '  says  she 
over  my  shoulder,  laughing  and  snapping  her 
eyes. 

I  would  have  stop  her  if  I  could.  I  turn  and 
see  my  brother  right  behind  me,  and  I  see  him 
scowl  at  me  and  go  purple  in  the  face. 

"No,  no/'  says  he,  shuffling  his  feet.  "No, 
no,  I— I- 

"No,"  says  I  to  her.  "My  brother's  got  to 
go  down-street  to  another  place  for  supper." 

He  give  me  another  scowl  and  turn  off,  and  I 
see  him  walking  into  a  cloud  of  smudge  stinking 
up  just  there  where  a  gang  of  Lisbons  was  boiling 
a  tar-pot,  and  I  think  I  hear  one  of  them  Lisbons 
laugh. 

"Come  along/'  says  I  to  my  woman.  I  never 
give  her  a  look  till  we  come  up  to  our  gate,  and 
then  I  see  her  face  like  a  devil,  sickly  white  with 
red  spots  on  the  cheeks,  and  her  teeth  biting  into 
her  lip  till  it  was  blue. 

"Look  here/'  says  I.  And  then  I  says:  "No, 
you  wait  till  you  get  into  the  house,  and  don't 
make  a  fool  of  yourself  before  people." 

"I  will  if  I  want!"  says  she,  and  her  eyes  was 
like  coals  in  a  fire.  And  then  she  begin.  Why 
didn't  I  tend  my  own  business?  Why  did  I 
always  go  to  work  and  stick  my  oar  in? 

"He  was  coming!"  says  she,  and  she  was  wild. 
"Anybody  could  see  he  was  coming.  Anybody 
with  anything  in  their  heads  could  see  he  was 

228 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

just  waiting  to  be  argued  a  little.  Anybody 
could  see  he  was  coming!" 

She  was  no  madder  than  I  was,  though.  I 
tell  you  I  had  hard  work  to  keep  my  hand 
off  her. 

"You  poor  foolish !"  says  I.  "Don't  you 
know  nothing  at  all?  You  want  to  know  where 
my  brother's  going  to  supper?  Eh?  Well,  he's 
going  to  supper  with  a  girl  named  Philomena 
Veara's  folks.  Don't  you  suppose  a  fellow  like 
my  brother  would  ever  get  married?  Eh?" 

She  stick  her  face  up  to  mine  and  I  hear  the 
wind  sucking  in  her  throat.  "You  liar!"  says 
she.  "You  liar!  you  liar!"  She  make  her  fingers 
up  like  claws.  "Tell  me  you're  a  liar!"  says  she. 
"Goon!" 

I  never  twitch  an  eyelid. 

We  didn't  say  nothing  at  supper,  and  right 
afterward  I  went  down  to  Tony  Jason's  cobble- 
shop,  where  I  and  some  of  the  Island  fellows 
generally  set  a  spell  in  the  evening.  I  imagine 
it  must  have  been  close  onto  eight  o'clock  when 
I  come  back  home,  and  I  was  surprised  to  see 
the  house  dark.  There  was  a  light  in  a  window 
across  the  street,  though,  and  it  fall  across  my 
gate,  and  there  I  see  Frank  Lopez  waiting  for 
me.  He  was  an  Island  fellow  same  as  me,  but  he 
was  one  of  them  kind  has  done  pretty  good  ashore 
and  likes  to  dress  up,  always  had  on  a  white 
collar  and  some-colored  tie  and  a  hard  hat,  a 
kind  of  large  fellow,  but  going  soft. 

229 


LAND'S  END 

He  never  give  me  no  time,  but  he  start  right  in. 

"Why  don't  you  keep  your  woman  to  home?" 
says  he. 

He  look  sick.  I  see  his  mouth  twisting  under 
his  mustache.  I  ought  to  show  him  a  thing, 
but  I  think  best  to  hold  by  the  wind. 

"  Whose  business  is  that?"  says  I,  and  not  too 
loud. 

But  there  was  no  talking  with  him.  He 
wouldn't  listen. 

"Why  don't  you  keep  your  woman  to  home?" 
he  says,  again,  like  a  wild  one.  "A  man  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  leave  his  woman  go  run  around 
after  a  young  fellow  like  your  brother  Raphael- 
run  around  bareheaded  after  dark — without  no 
shame  for  who  should  know  it — even  them 
Lisbons  to  his  boarding-house." 

"Whose  business  is  that?"  says  I,  again.  I 
just  keep  looking  at  him.  "You  go  on  home  to 
your  woman,"  says  I. 

He  was  a  soft  fellow  and  he  go. 

How  did  I  feel?  Well,  I  feel  like  my  hands 
was  cold,  and  I  rub  them  together  to  get  warm. 
Then  I  come  up  to  the  back  street  and  I  turn  to 
the  east'rd  going  over  the  hill.  I  just  walk 
along.  And  when  I  get  up  a  ways  I  see  my 
woman  coming  over  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  I 
fetch  up  and  wait  for  her.  When  she  come 
closer,  I  give  you  my  word,  sir,  I  think  for  a 
minute  she'd  been  having  a  drink.  She  never  had 
sense  enough  even  to  be  scared  of  me,  but  she 

230 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

come  right  along  like  a  girl  dancing  in  Menin' 
Jesus,  her  face  shining  in  the  stars. 

"I  knew  you  was  lying, "  she  says,  and  it  was 
same  as  if  she  was  singing  a  song.  "I  knew  it, 
I  knew  it" — like  that. 

Somehow  or  other  I  couldn't  lay  hand  on  her, 
that  way.  I  turn  my  back  and  look  over  the 
edge  of  the  hill,  and  I  see  the  harbor  black  as  a 
pond  of  ink  with  all  the  vessels'  riding-lights 
sprinkled  over  it,  and  all  the  roofs  of  the  town 
under  my  feet.  It  was  still  as  the  dead;  it  was  so 
still  I  hear  somebody  walking  along  the  front 
street  down  there,  and  it  was  like  it  was  something 
walking  dump-clump-clump  around  the  insides  of 
my  head.  And  by  and  by  I  says  to  my  woman: 

"Come  on  along  home." 

And  we  come  home.  .  .  . 

One  morning  my  brother  was  sick.  We  had 
decided  on  it  to  go  off  early  that  morning  so  as  to 
make  the  south'rd  of  the  Rips.  I  was  down  to 
the  beach  about  half  past  one,  setting  on  the 
gunwale  of  the  dory  and  waiting  for  my  brother 
to  show  up.  The  moon  was  just  turned  a  couple 
of  nights,  right  in  top  of  the  sky,  and  it  make  the 
beach  and  the  fish-houses  and  the  chimney  of  the 
freezer  beyond  look  like  a  picture  of  night  in  a 
film  to  the  theater;  everything  hard  as  a  diamond, 
same  as  you'll  see  it  sometimes  on  a  falling  glass. 
I  remember  I  says  to  myself:  "We'll  have  a 
piece  of  weather  before  a  great  while.  You 

watch  now!" 

231 


LAND'S  END 

I  must  have  set  there  a  good  quarter-hour 
before  I  see  my  brother  coming  down  in  the 
shadow  between  the  fish-houses,  and  then  I  see  he 
wasn't  by  himself.  When  he  come  out  in  the 
light  I  see  he  was  hanging  on  to  his  stomach  and 
his  face  all  twisted  up. 

" What's  wrong?"  says  I.    "Sick?" 

"I  got  a  hell  of  a  cramp,"  says  he.  "I  liked  to 
died  a  minute  back.  I  haul  Tony  Hears  out  on 
the  chance,"  says  he.  And  I  hear  him  try  to 
keep  from  groaning. 

"What  you  been  eating?"  I  ask  him. 

"  Nothing  I  know  of,"  says  he. 

"You  go  on  back  to  bed,"  says  I.  "You  take 
a  good  shot  of  gin  and  go  on  back  to  bed.  I  and 
Tony  '11  make  a  day.  Now  go  on." 

He  go  a  few  steps  and  set  down  on  another 
dory  and  hang  onto  his  stomach  a  minute. 

"Go  on  do  what  I  tell  you,"  says  I.  And  then 
I  stand  there  looking  at  where  he  had  gone  a 
long  while  till  the  St.  Michel's  says  to  me: 

"Well,  how  about  it,  how  about  it?" 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "that's  right."  And  I  give  him 
a  hand  with  the  dory. 

There  wasn't  a  streak  of  air;  it  was  like  sliding 
over  a  smooth  black  floor.  I  was  rowing,  but  I 
couldn't  keep  my  eyes  off  that  town  there, 
laying  so  still  and  pale  and  clear  in  the  moon. 

"Look  out  where  you're  going,"  the  St. 
Michel's  says  to  me  by  and  by.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you?"  says  he.  "You  sick,  too?" 

232 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

"Me?"  says  I. 

"Well,"  says  he,  "I  just  think  you  looked 
funny,  that's  all." 

We  come  alongside  the  Flores  and  we  come 
aboard,  and  he  go  up  forward  to  stand  by  and 
cast  off  the  mooring. 

"When  you're  ready,"  says  he,  "sing  out." 
But  I  just  stand  there. 

"When  you're  ready!"  he  give  me  again,  kind 
of  sharp. 

I  come  and  got  down  the  hatch  to  turn  the 
engine  over,  but  then  I  just  set  there  with  my 
hands  hanging  down.  Everything  look  black 
in  front  of  my  eyes  and  my  mouth  was  sour. 
By  and  by  he  come  and  look  down  the  hatch. 

"Well,"  says  he.  "Are  we  going  to-day,  or 
ain't  we  going  to-day?" 

"We  ain't  going  to-day,"  says  I. 

I  get  out  on  deck  and  come  over  to  hand 
the  dory  painter,  and  he  come  after  me,  chew 
ing  his  mustache  and  carrying  on.  He  want 
to  know  what  I  want  to  get  a  man  out  of 
bed  for. 

"I  thought  you  says  you  wasn't  sick,"  says  he. 

"I  am,  though,"  says  I,  and  I  give  him  two 
dollars  and  he  shut  up. 

We  put  ashore,  him  rowing  and  me  in  the 
stern-sheets  looking  at  that  town.  I  guess  I 
could  tell  you  the  shape  of  every  shadow  in  that 
water-front  that  night. 

"Row  faster,"  I  says  to  him. 
233 


LAND'S  END 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for?"  says  he. 

"Row  faster,"  says  I. 

I  couldn't  go  fast  enough.  But  yet  when  we 
get  the  dory  hauled  up  I  wouldn't  go.  I  stand 
there  by  the  dory  till  the  St.  Michel's  was  out  of 
sight  before  I  would  go  up  between  them  fish- 
houses  and  across  the  front  street  and  up  into  my 
own  street,  where  it  was  like  an  empty  hallway 
under  glass.  My  mouth  was  like  a  shoe,  it  was 
so  dry,  and  I  keep  wanting  to  walk  faster,  and  I 
keep  walking  slower  instead,  as  if  it  was  a  steep 
hill  I  had  to  climb,  and  all  them  little  houses  on 
each  side  sliding  down  astern  of  me  into  the 
ocean,  one  by  one,  till  at  last  I  come  to  my  own. 
The  moon  was  full  on  the  front  of  it  and  I  see 
the  door  was  open. 

I  come  in  the  gate  easy.  I  never  think  about 
it,  but  I  must  have  come  up  the  steps  on  tiptoe, 
because  my  brother  never  hear  me  and  he  was 
right  there  in  the  hallway.  I  see  him  standing 
there  black  against  the  light  in  the  kitchen  door 
beyond;  he  never  hear  me,  he  never  know  I  was 
anywheres  near,  but  yet  I  see  him  shaking  all 
over  like  he  was  cold  as  ice.  I  hear  him  breath 
ing.  I  hear  something  else,  too — I  hear  a  door 
open  and  I  hear  the  sound  of  bare  feet  coming 
across  the  oilcloth  in  the  kitchen  and  I  see  my 
woman's  shadow.  And  then  I  scrape  my  boots 
on  the  step  and  I  says  out  loud: 

"Well?"  says  I. 

Nothing  move.    For  a  minute  everything  seem 

234 


A   MAN'S   A    FOOL 

to  fetch  up.  Then  by  and  by  I  hear  my  woman 
take  a  breath  in  the  kitchen. 

"Raphael?"  I  hear  her  call,  hardly  over  a 
whisper.  Then  I  see  by  her  shadow  she  put  one 
hand  to  her  neck.  "John?"  she  call. 

All  this  while  my  brother  never  move  a  muscle. 

"Come  out  in  the  yard,"  I  says  to  him.  I  turn 
around  and  come  down  the  step  to  the  walk. 

"Come  out  in  the  yard,"  I  says  again,  after 
another  minute. 

He  come  slow  enough.  When  he  got  in  the 
moon  I  see  his  face  the  color  of  dough  and  his 
eyes  as  round  as  marbles,  and  him  shaking  like 
a  man  in  a  chill.  In  one  hand  I  see  his  pocket- 
knife  with  the  big  blade  open.  I  see  it  shining 
cold  and  blue. 

"What's  that  for?"  says  I. 

He  never  open  his  mouth,  but  just  come  down 
the  steps  slow,  looking  at  me  with  his  round 
eyes  and  shaking  all  over.  I  haul  out  my  own 
knife  from  my  pocket  and  I  heave  it  over  the 
fence  in  the  road. 

It  seem  like  that  fetch  him  up.  After  a  minute 
he  look  down  at  his  knife,  and  then  he  heave  it 
over  the  fence  and  wipe  a  wrist  over  his  fore 
head  and  stick  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  same  as 
me.  We  stand  there.  It  wasn't  that  we  wasn't 
ready  enough  to  show  each  other  a  thing;  it 
wasn't  that,  no,  no.  Only  not  there  with  that 
woman  looking  on;  not  when  I  see  the  pleasure 
it  give  her. 

235 


LAND'S  END 

Oh  yes,  she  was  there,  all  right!  Wild  horses 
couldn't  keep  her  away.  She'd  been  scared 
there  in  the  kitchen,  but  she  forget  to  be  scared 
now.  I  see  her  standing  in  the  door  with  a  quilt 
wrapped  around  her  and  her  bare  toes  over  the 
sill.  Her  cheeks  was  dark  and  her  lips  parted  a 
little  and  she  lean  forward  a  little  like  a  woman 
at  a  play,  looking  out  of  them  bright  eyes  at  me 
and  my  brother  standing  up  there  in  the  moon. 
The  pleasure  it  give  her! 

When  that  come  over  me  the  moon  turn  to 
blood.  I  start  to  walk  toward  her,  but  there  was 
my  brother  getting  in  my  way,  with  his  face 
gone  red  and  his  hands  twisting  together.  I  give 
him  a  look. 

"No,  you  don't!"  says  he,  and  he  stammer  and 
look  foolish. 

"Why?"  says  I. 

"No — no — you  don't,"  says  he. 

My  brother  was  the  tallest  of  the  two,  but  I 
was  the  heaviest  set.  I  could  have  show  him  a 
thing,  and  yet  I  stand  back. 

"Why  not?"  says  I,  and  I  speak  low.  "Tell 
me  the  reason  why  not?" 

My  brother  chew  his  lips  and  look  at  the 
ground,  and  my  woman  give  the  answer  for  him. 
She  lean  a  little  further  out,  with  her  eyes  as 
bright  as  stars,  and  her  voice  shake  with  the 
pleasure  it  give  her. 

"Because,"  says  she — "because  he's  the  best 
man  of  the  two." 

236 


A   MAN'S   A    FOOL 

I  never  look  at  her.  I  keep  looking  at  my 
brother. 

"Do  you  imagine,"  I  says,  "that  you're  the 
best  man  of  the  two?" 

He  wipe  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  a  hand 
and  scowl. 

"Do  you  imagine  you  are?"  says  he. 

It  come  down  to  that;  all  the  years  I  and  him 
was  brothers!  Imagine! 

The  air  was  still.  And  yet  it  wasn't  still, 
neither.  We  hear  town  hall  striking  three  to  the 
east'rd,  and  all  over  the  neighborhood  we  hear 
footsteps  going  down  the  side-streets  and  men 
calling  to  each  other  under  their  voices,  men 
going  down  to  then"  boats.  Manuel  Duarte 
come  out  of  his  house  opposite,  and  Frank  Silva, 
who  was  mates  with  him,  come  down  from  the 
back  way,  hauling  on  his  oil-coat  while  he  walk. 
They  stand  by  the  fence  a  minute  looking  at  the 
weather,  and  Duarte  says: 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know."  And  Silva 
says,  "The  Gaspa  boys  have  went  and  gone  back 
to  bed  again." 

They  look  across  at  me  and  my  brother  stand 
ing  there,  but  it  seem  like  they  never  see  anything 
out  of  the  way. 

"How  about  it,  John?"  Silva  says  to  me. 
"You  think  you'll  go?" 

That  was  the  first  I  give  a  thought  to  the 
weather.  It  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  light. 
The  moon  was  still  clear  in  the  west'rd  side  of  the 

237 


LAND'S  END 

sky,  but  when  I  give  a  look  to  the  east'rd  I  see 
the  weather  making  up  over  the  Truro  shore,  a 
devil's  own  bank  of  weather,  with  red  running 
along  the  bottom  like  coals  showing  through 
ashes.  And  with  all  of  it,  never  a  cupful  of  wind. 

"EM"  says  Silva. 

"I'll  take  a  chance  on  it,"  says  I. 

And  my  brother  give  me  no  time  to  look  at 
him,  even. 

"I'll  take  a  chance  on  it,"  says  he. 

We  leave  my  woman  standing  there  in  the 
door  with  the  quilt  around  her,  and  we  come  out 
the  gate  and  down  to  the  shore,  each  walking  on 
different  sides  of  the  street  and  never  saying 
nothing. 

We  leave  the  best  part  of  the  fleet  on  the  beach 
that  morning,  and  the  rest  we  leave  at  their 
moorings  waiting  to  have  a  look  at  the  weather — 
all  except  Duarte  and  Silva.  Duarte  was  one  of 
them  large,  sour  fellows,  always  cursing  and 
swearing  if  he  imagine  anybody  was  like  to  get 
ahead  of  him,  and  I  see  him  and  Silva  coming 
along  astern  of  us  in  their  double-ender,  Duarte 
in  the  bow. 

We  come  along  and  we  come  along.  My  mind 
was  so  take  up  with  what  had  happen  that  I 
don't  remember  much.  I  stand  the  wheel  with 
my  back  to  my  brother,  and  he  set  in  the  stern 
with  his  back  to  me,  and  never  a  word  between 
us.  We  ought  to  put  back,  but  neither  I  or  him 
would  be  the  one  to  sing  out, 

238 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

We  come  along  and  we  come  along;  we  come 
around  the  Point,  we  come  clear  of  Wood  End. 
I  see  the  water  there  at  Wood  End  like  a  pane  of 
purple  glass  laid  down,  it  was  so  smooth,  and  it 
seem  like  it  was  because  the  air  press  on  it  so 
heavy  it  couldn't  stir.  I  give  a  look  astern,  not 
at  my  brother,  but  over  my  brother's  head;  I 
give  a  look  at  the  Truro  shore,  and  there  I  see 
the  city  of  hell  built  up  into  the  sky,  like  towers. 
I  see  that,  and  I  see  three  gill-netters  edging  in 
from  the  south'rd,  just  drifting  in,  because  there 
was  never  a  cupful  of  wind.  And  I  see  Duarte 
and  Silva  away  astern  of  us,  cutting  a  big  circle 
to  put  back,  and  where  they  cut  that  circle  it 
look  like  a  pen  of  blood  drawed  over  a  dark- 
purple  paper. 

My  hand  laid  light  on  the  wheel,  but  I  never 
look  at  my  brother  or  him  at  me.  It  was  like 
that  Lisbon  woman  stand  on  the  deck  between 
us  with  her  deviled  eyes  and  her  lips  parted, 
waiting  to  see  which  would  be  the  one  of  us  to 
sing  out.  But  I  would  have  cut  my  hand  off, 
and  so  would  my  brother. 

We  come  along  and  we  come  along,  and  the 
engine  running  like  a  flower.  Away  ahead  I  see 
a  Channel  schooner,  a  big  knockabout  fellow, 
laying  calmed  under  the  Race,  with  her  hull  and 
rigging  showing  upside  down  in  the  water  like 
a  picture.  I  see  her  there  one  minute,  and  then 
another  minute  I  never  see  her  at  all.  It  come 
thick,  I  tell  you — it  come  thick  enough!  It  was 

239 


LAND'S  END 

like  that  weather  bank  had  get  top-heavy  and 
fall  right  over  on  top  of  everything,  and  you 
couldn't  see  three  fathom  off  the  bow.  And  how 
it  breeze!  God,  how  it  breeze! 

Of  course  we  was  in  the  lee  of  the  Neck  there, 
with  no  sea  to  hit  us — none  to  speak  of.  But 
God  knows  what  it  was  picking  up  beyond  the 
Race  there  ahead  of  us — once  come  clear  of  the 
Race  and  all  the  water  in  the  world  piling  up 
and  no  lee  this  side  of  the  Portugee  coast! 

A  man's  a  fool,  all  right.  I  see  my  brother 
out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye  come  up  beside  me 
and  lean  his  elbows  on  the  house,  and  I  see  his 
eyes  squinting  ahead,  and  I  see  his  soft  face,  so 
much  better-looking  than  mine,  and  I  see  the 
wet  running  down  off  his  chin.  It  come  to  me 
it  was  time  and  time  enough  for  one  of  us  to 
sing  out.  But  I  would  have  cut  my  hand  off,  and 
so  would  my  brother. 

He  did  sing  out  by  and  by.  He  sing  out  all  of 
a  sudden : 

"  Put  her  up!    Put  her  up!" 

I  swing  her  over  first  and  I  look  to  see  what 
it  was  afterward,  and  there  come  the  weather- 
side  of  that  knockabout's  hull  sailing  through 
the  thick  not  a  fathom  off  our  rail,  high  as  a 
church  it  seem,  a-cruising  along,  cruising  like  a 
railroad  train,  with  half  the  sails  blow  out  of  her. 
And  I  see  heads  come  popping  over  her  rail  to 
look  down  at  us,  half  niggers,  and  the  whole  of 
them  with  their  mouths  open  to  see  us  bound 

240 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

out  in  that,  and  when  her  stern  come  by  I  see  her 
old  man  hanging  over  the  taffrail  and  making 
signs. 

She  leave  a  river  of  milk  behind  her;  she'd 
have  cut  us  in  two  like  a  piece  of  cheese  if  my 
brother  hadn't  sing  out  that  time.  And  when  I 
look  at  him  I  see  he  was  mad,  with  his  teeth  set 
into  his  lip  and  spots  on  his  cheeks — mad  be 
cause  it  was  him  had  sing  out,  in  place  of  me. 
I  had  the  best  of  him!  I  had  the  best  of  him! 

God!  I  was  glad!  I  see  him  standing  there  in 
the  hallway  again ;  I  hear  my  woman's  bare  feet 
coming  over  the  oilcloth,  and  I  hear  her  calling 
his  name  like  she  done;  and  then  I  hear  her 
saying,  "  Because  he's  the  best  man  of  the  two." 
And  now  it  was  him  had  sing  out  and  I  had  the 
best  of  him;  and  I  give  him  no  time  and  I  look 
him  in  the  eye. 

"You  got  enough?"  says  I.  "If  you  got 
enough,  sing  out,  sing  out!" 

"Me?"  says  he. 

"Pretty  quick  now  we'll  come  clear  of  the 
Race,"  says  I,  "and  if  you  get  scared,  why,  all 
you  got  to  do  is  sing  out." 

"Me?"  says  he.  And  with  that  he  begin  to 
laugh.  He  laugh  and  he  laugh;  he  hang  onto 
the  house  and  laugh.  And  then  I  could  have 
cut  his  heart  because  I  see  I  had  give  it  to  him — 
he  had  make  me  do  the  talking  and  it  was  him  had 
the  best  of  me  now. 

"All  right,"  says  I,  and  that's  all  I  says.     I 

16  241 


LAND'S  END 

feel  the  deck  go  down  under  me  and  I  see  a  slide 
of  water  coming  down  out  of  the  thick  ahead  of 
us,  and  then  I  know  we  was  coming  clear  of  the 
Race. 

That  little  boat,  that  Flores,  she  never  was 
meant  for  a  thing  like  that — not  for  what  she 
get  when  we  come  fair  clear  of  the  Race.  You 
don't  know,  sir.  You  never  see  it  breezing 
heavy  like  that  in  a  thirty-foot  gasolener.  She 
done  the  best  she  know  how,  and  I  done  the  best 
I  know  how  to  keep  her  head  to  it,  but  I  tell  you 
the  truth  we  was  awash — awash,  sir.  They 
come  on  top  of  you  before  you  see  them,  it  was  so 
thick;  they  break  on  top  the  bows  white  as  milk 
and  come  astern  over  you.  And  then  you  feel 
her  give  and  wallow  and  slide  one  side  or  the 
other  and  come  up  slow,  slow,  to  take  another 
one. 

And  how  it  breeze!    God,  how  it  breeze! 

We  come  along  and  we  come  along,  how  far 
I  never  know — a  good  ways  up  the  Back  Side 
anyhow — a  good  ways  further  than  we  ought. 
If  we  come  abreast  of  Peaked  Hill  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised,  and  all  that  time  neither  I  or  my 
brother  would  sing  out.  We'd  have  cut  our 
hand  off  now. 

I  give  him  a  look  and  I  see  he  was  looking  at 
me;  I  see  his  face  through  a  sheet  of  water;  I  see 
the  hate  of  me  in  his  eyes  that  never  give  in. 
But  I  see  his  fingers  was  blue  where  he  hang  on 
the  house,  and  his  mouth  blue,  and  the  water 

242 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

running  down  his  cheeks  was  like  tears  run 
ning  down,  and  he  wasn't  hardly  more  than 
a  boy. 

I  take  a  chance  between  two  seas  and  I  lean 
over  and  yell  to  him: 

"You  got  enough,  Raphael,  you  got  enough? 
Sing  out  once,  Raphael,  just  once,  and  I'll  put 
about!'7 

"Go  on/'  says  he,  and  I  see  him  lean  toward 
me.  "I  dare  you!" 

"You  dare  me?"  says  I.  "You  dare  me  to?" 
says  I.  I  haul  back  from  him  and  I  could  have 
bit  out  my  tongue  then,  because  he  had  get  me 
there  before  I  think — he  get  the  best  of  me. 
Because  the  only  thing  we  can  do  now  was  keep 
on  going  into  it.  Put  her  about — let  her  come 
broadside  on  once — and  we  was  good  as  done  for. 

Never  mind,  I  was  crazy  now.  I  never  care 
what  happen  now. 

"You  dare  me  to?"  I  sing  out,  and  I  give  the 
wheel  a  twist  and  I  hook  my  arm  through  it  and 
I  laid  my  head  down  on  the  house. 

It's  funny  what  I  see  that  minute.  I  see  my 
brother  Raphael  six  year  old,  standing  in  front 
of  my  uncle  Domingo's  shop  there  in  Flores, 
laughing  at  nothing — shaking  his  curls  and  show 
ing  his  teeth  for  nothing  but  just  the  pleasure  he 
take  in  the  sunshine  and  all.  .  .  . 

I  feel  the  boat  turning  over  under  me ;  it  feel 
like  it  was  turning  over.  I  hear  something  part ; 
I  hear  the  crack  of  it  over  everything  else ;  and  I 

243 


LAND'S  END 

feel  the  give.  We  was  rigged  with  a  half-mast 
and  a  boom  and  leg-o'-mutton  sail,  in  case.  And 
it  come  to  me  that  roll  had  rack  the  sheet  out  of 
her  and  let  that  boom  go  adrift,  and  I  give  a  yell 
to  my  brother  to  look  out  for  the  boom,  and  just 
then  something  come  by,  whhhish!  and  carry  my 
oil-hat  away.  And  then  I  give  him  another  yell 
to  look  out  when  she  come  back  again.  But  she 
never  come  back.  I  hear  one  crash,  and  that 
was  the  mast — mast,  stays,  boom,  whole  business 
gone  clean  over  the  side  and  away. 

And  the  water!  For  a  minute  there,  I  tell  you 
the  truth,  sir,  I  never  believe  we  was  coming 
clear.  I  was  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb  with  the 
water,  and  all  I  can  do  was  shut  my  eyes  and  pray 
and  hang  on  and  hang  on.  Seem  like  all  the 
water  in  the  ocean  come  against  my  legs,  and 
then  I  feel  something  else  come  against  my  legs 
and  I  put  one  over  and  clinch  my  knees  and 
hang  onto  him  for  all  there  was  in  me,  because  I 
feel  it  was  my  brother. 

And  you  know,  somehow  or  other,  God  knows 
how,  we  was  coming  clear.  We  had  get  our 
backs  to  it  and  the  deck  come  lifting  out  of  the 
water.  Not  that  we  was  done  with  it,  not  by  a 
damn  sight — running  before  it  that  way  she 
would  yaw  like  a  house  afire,  and  it  take  all  the 
muscle  in  my  two  arms  to  keep  her  stern-on  to 
the  seas.  But  at  least  after  a  minute  I  could  get 
a  chance  to  look  down  at  my  brother,  where  he 
laid  on  his  back  there  between  my  two  boots. 

244 


A    MAN'S    A    FOOL 

He  was  cover  with  drift  and  he  laid  still,  as 
still  as  I  could  hold  him  with  my  feet.  But  his 
eyes  was  open,  looking  up  at  me. 

And  then  I  couldn't  say  nothing.  Nor  I  can't 
give  him  a  hand.  The  top  of  a  sea  come  aboard 
and  washed  him,  all  pale  green,  but  yet  I  couldn't 
give  him  a  hand  on  account  of  the  wheel.  I  see 
what  was  the  matter — oh,  I  see  what  was  the 
matter  all  right — but  yet  I  couldn't  do  nothing 
but  hold  him  there  by  his  oil-clothes,  and  his 
eyes  looking  up  at  me  all  the  while. 

"  Was  it  the  boom?"  I  ask  him  by  and  by,  and 
it  sound  like  my  voice  was  somebody  else's 
speaking. 

He  never  answer  me,  but  I  see  by  his  eyes  it 
was.  It  was  the  boom  that  time — and  it  had 
broke  my  brother  Raphael's  back.  And  all  I 
could  do  was  hold  him  as  still  as  I  can  and  look 
down  into  his  eyes.  And  them  were  my  brother's 
eyes  again,  just  like  I  use  to  see  them,  them 
kid's  eyes,  so  brown  and  kind  and  forgiving- 
God!  sir!  And  I  couldn't  say  nothing  and  I 
couldn't  give  him  a  hand. 

We  must  have  come  down  the  Back  Side  fast. 
Seem  like  when  we  get  on  top  a  sea  it  throw 
us  half  a  mile  ahead,  and  yet  it  seem  hours 
and  hours,  and  every  minute  of  it  me  praying 
to  God  and  the  Mother  of  God  for  just  a  bit 
of  a  lee. 

I  come  by  guess;  I  come  clear  of  the  Race  by 
guess.  I  find  lee  water  right  under  the  shore, 

245 


LAND'S  END 

and  I  stop  the  engine  and  leave  go  the  wheel, 
and  then  I  get  down  beside  my  brother  and  give 
him  a  kiss,  and  I  see  tears  running  down  his  face, 
and  they  was  mine.  And  I  says  to  him : 

"Wait!  You're  all  right,  Raphael  boy.  You'll 
be  all  right  and  you  ain't  hurt  bad.  It's  all  right, 
Raphael  boy.  Only  you  wait  here  quiet  a  second 
while  I  heave  over  that  anchor  and  I'll  be  back." 

I  give  him  another  kiss  on  the  cheek,  and  then 
I  tumble  up  forward  and  heave  that  anchor  over. 
It  never  take  me  no  time.  I  was  back  like  that. 
But  yet  what  little  sea  there  was  had  shift  him  a 
mite  on  the  deck,  and  I  see  my  brother  was  dead. 

I  kneel  there  a  spell,  I  never  know  how  long, 
without  a  thing  in  my  head.  And  then,  by  and 
by,  I  get  up  and  set  on  the  house  with  my  chin 
in  my  hand,  and  I  think  of  that  woman. 

I  set  there  all  that  day  and  I  think  of  that 
woman.  I  never  know  when  the  wind  shift,  or 
when  it  come  on  to  clear.  I  see  the  sun  setting 
over  the  Plymouth  shore  the  color  of  a  lemon;  I 
see  my  brother  laying  on  the  deck;  I  see  a  whet 
stone  between  my  knees  and  a  cleaning-knife 
whet  bright  in  my  hand.  And  I  think  of  that 
woman. 

The  moon  was  just  coming  up  when  I  come  into 
the  harbor  that  night.  When  I  pick  up  my 
mooring  and  make  her  fast  I  put  that  cleaning- 
knife  inside  my  shirt,  and  then  I  take  my  brother 
and  lower  him  into  the  dory  and  I  come  ashore. 

Nobody  was  on  the  beach.     Everything  was 

246 


A   MAN'S    A    FOOL 

dead  when  I  carry  my  brother  up  the  street. 
All  the  windows  in  the  houses  was  black.  The 
moon  was  on  the  roofs,  but  in  the  street  it  was 
still  dark.  When  I  come  to  my  house  I  see  it 
was  dark,  too,  and  I  was  glad. 

I  come  up  the  step  quiet.  I  come  in  and  I 
laid  my  brother  down  on  the  sofa  in  the  front 
room  where  it  was  all  as  black  as  anything.  And 
after  I  laid  him  down  I  come  out  across  the 
kitchen  and  I  come  into  her  and  my  bedroom 
quiet,  and  I  come  to  the  bed.  Then  I  feel  all 
over  the  bed  quiet,  all  over  it.  But  my  woman 
wasn't  nowhere  there. 

I  call  her  name  out  in  a  kind  voice.  I  call 
again,  but  I  never  hear  her  anywhere.  I  put  the 
knife  back  in  my  shirt  and  I  come  out  to  the 
front  door,  and  there  I  see  a  woman  at  the  gate. 

But  it  wasn't  my  woman,  though.  It  was 
Frank  Lopez's  woman.  I  think  to  myself  he 
must  be  late  at  the  store  and  her  waiting  for  him. 
But  he  wasn't  to  the  store  that  night,  and  it  was 
me  she  was  waiting  for. 

And  when  I  hear  what  she  had  to  say — when  I 
hear  her  telling  me  in  the  dark  there  how  her  and 
him — her  man  and  my  woman — had  go  away 
together  that  morning — go  away  on  that  morning 
train  together — when  I  hear  that  I  just  lean  there 
in  the  door  a  spell  and  I  look  at  her,  and  I  look 
at  her  white  face  and  her  claw-fingers,  and  I 
never  give  her  back  so  much  as  a  word  for  the 
words  she  give  me. 

247 


LAND'S  END 

By  and  by  I  turn  around  and  I  come  into  the 
front  room  and  I  set  down  in  a  chair  beside  my 
brother  where  he  laid  on  the  sofa.  And  after  I 
set  there  a  spell  I  begin  to  laugh.  And  I  laugh 
and  I  laugh.  .  .  . 


KED'S  HAND 

IT  is  called  Red's  Hand,  and  it  is  not  unlike  a 
hand  in  shape,  with  the  knuckle  of  the  sandy 
thumb  raised  a  little  to  bear  the  weight  of 
Huddlestone  Light,  the  fingers  pressed  together, 
stretching  to  the  east,  and  a  slender,  woman's 
wrist  holding  it  to  the  land.  People  live  some 
where  in  the  peninsula,  though  one  would  not 
guess  it  to  look  across  from  Huddlestone,  and  the 
mainland  folks  seem  to  know  little  about  it, 
lumping  the  inhabitants  in  general  as  "Ked's" 
when  they  mention  them.  Inbreeding  did  it, 
they  say;  that  is  all,  and  that  is  enough. 

At  no  place  except  at  the  Light  does  the  land 
lift  many  feet  above  the  tides.  It  is  veined  with 
salt  water  and  rotten  with  marsh  and  quicksand. 
Fogs  oppress  it,  resting  motionless  on  the  moors, 
lending  an  illusion  of  vastness  to  the  headland. 
In  season  there  is  a  droning  sound,  continuous 
from  dawn  to  dawn,  of  mosquitoes.  Nothing  else 
breaks  the  silence;  there  are  never  any  breakers, 
for  there  are  no  edges.  The  land  fades  out  in  a 
penumbra  of  reeds  and  grasses — not  so  much  like 
a  hand  as  like  the  shadow  of  a  hand  held  under  a 
diffused  light. 

249 


LAND'S  END 

Duck-hunters  go  there  in  the  late  fall.  In  the 
summer,  save  for  the  strip  of  white  beach  along 
the  pad  of  the  thumb,  the  place  remains  remote 
and  sufficient  to  itself,  a  mysterious  wraith,  never 
really  seen  from  the  main  except  on  occasional 
moonlit  nights,  when  it  seems  to  emerge  from  its 
fogs  and  gleam  with  a  phosphorescent  pallor 
among  its  lagoons — Ked's  Hand. 

To-night  a  party  of  people  from  "  The  Willows  " 
at  Huddlestone  were  having  a  corn-roast  on  the 
pad  of  the  thumb.  Some  of  them,  with  children, 
were  to  return  on  an  early  launch,  and  the  rest 
were  to  remain  and  see  the  eclipse  of  the  moon 
at  ten  or  thereabouts.  They  had  built  a  fire, 
laying  two  timbers  of  a  wrecked  ship  near  to 
gether  and  piling  smaller  driftwood  all  along 
between  them,  so  that  it  made  a  miniature  street 
of  living  coals  and  gave  every  one  a  chance  with 
his  corn  or  bacon.  From  a  little  way  off  in  the 
darkness,  the  moving,  flame-colored  figures  made 
a  composition  spectacular  and  intimate. 

Gaspard  Kroon,  the  Gipsy  Tenor,  was  in  the 
center  of  the  farther  line  where  the  light  was 
brightest.  That  was  like  him.  He  carried  the 
burden  of  the  gaiety;  he  was  brilliant,  electric, 
full  of  gesture,  drawing  in  to  himself  all  the 
tangled  threads  of  interest.  He  drained  himself. 
On  his  swarthy,  razor-sharp  face  tiny  red  beads 
of  perspiration  came  out  and  evaporated  in  the 
heat. 

Gaspard  Kroon  was  the  new  man.     That  was 

250 


KED'S    HAND 

what  he  called  himself,  in  fact — "the  New  Man." 
He  had  nothing  behind  him — no  history,  no 
moral  liabilities,  no  sense  of  race;  two  years  ago 
this  evening  he  had  not  been  able  to  write  or 
read  his  own  name,  and  therefore  he  could  win 
the  world. 

Hoff  had  discovered  him.  Hoff  was  there,  to 
the  left,  being  quite  himself,  and  tearing  at  an 
ear  of  com  with  his  wide  teeth.  Lydia  Klein, 
the  editor,  was  there — and  others.  Gaspard  car 
ried  them  along.  One  wondered  if  he  liked  them. 

Marcia  More  hated  them  just  now.  She  sat  on 
the  sand  a  little  way  off  in  the  shadows,  taking  no 
part.  Her  hands  were  clasped  about  her  knees. 
An  occasional  crab  scuttled  past  her  in  the  dark, 
but  she  did  not  mind. 

It  would  have  seemed  possible  to  only  one  or 
two  people,  her  oldest  friends,  that  she  could 
hate  any  one.  She  had  been  through  the  mill  of 
emotion  and  come  out  wearing  a  blank.  Her 
face  was  like  the  face  of  a  mountain  lake,  giving 
back  what  it  received.  Only  Gaspard,  of  all  the 
later  people,  knew  anything  about  her,  and  this 
was  because  she  loved  him. 

They  had  been  married  half  a  year  now. 
She  had  wanted  him  to  come  down  to  Huddle- 
stone  because  nobody  knew  about  the  place,  and 
there  they  all  were,  after  a  week,  hounds  on  a 
warm  trail.  She  felt  them  tearing  at  his  willing 
vitality.  She  knew  something  about  life  and 
about  achievement,  and  she  had  dreamed  of  an 

251 


LAND'S  END 

old  and  solid  house  somewhere,  buried  deep  in  the 
country — quiet,  brooding,  a  sanctuary.  Gaspard 
needed  that  if  he  was  to  endure. 

She  heard  his  voice  calling:  "Marcia!  Oh, 
Marcia!  Where  are  you?" 

Rising,  she  moved  forward  and  stopped  just 
at  the  edge  of  the  firelight.  He  came  to  her, 
stepping  over  children  with  his  long,  nervous 
legs,  an  expression  of  sudden  sobriety  on  his 
face.  > 

"I'm  afraid  you're  not  having  a  good  time," 
he  said. 

"Oh  yes.  Don't  worry  about  me,  dear.  I'm 
quiet." 

She  turned  back  slowly  to  the  night,  taking 
him  with  her. 

"You're  always  quiet,"  he  said.  They  sat 
down  on  the  beach  with  the  tranquil  water  lap 
ping  near  their  feet.  He  broke  out  after  a 
moment,  as  if  he  could  not  endure  the  silence: 
"Marcia,  this  place  is  queer.  It's  worse  than 
queer;  it's  horrible.  It  makes  a  drumming  in  my 
ears.  The  air's  heavy." 

She  laid  a  hand  on  one  of  his.  "See  the  stars 
there  in  the  water,  Gaspard;  every  one  of  them 
perfectly  still  and  round.  It's  as  if  we  were 
hanging  between  two  skies." 

"Yes,  and  look  at  the  mist  creeping  over  the 
marsh  there  beyond.  My  skin  prickles,  Marcia. 
I  have  dreams  like  this  sometimes,  awful  dreams, 
where  everything  is  heavy,  and  the  air  like  lead, 

252 


KED'S    HAND 

and  my  skin  prickles.  I'm  afraid  of  this  place. 
They  say  at  the  hotel  that  it's  called  'Ked's 
Hand/  Well,  what  if  the  hand  were  to  close  up 
all  of  a  sudden  and  hold  us  here  forever,  smoth 
ered?  Will  you  look  at  that  fog  now,  with  the 
moon  rising  through  it.  How  pale  the  stuff  is! 
It  doesn't  move,  and  yet  it  comes  toward  us. 
It's  something  dead,  Marcia.  I  hate  dead 
things."  He  held  in  his  hand  a  pointed  stick, 
with  which  he  had  been  toasting  bacon.  He 
waved  it  now  with  a  gesture  of  nervousness. 
"  Marcia,  what  does  it  make  you  want  to  do? 
Shriek?  Or  sleep?" 

Marcia  bent  forward  and  sifted  sand  through 
her  fingers.  "  Sleep's  not  so  bad.  Every  one 
has  to  sleep  from  time  to  time." 

"I  don't.  Why  should  7  sleep?  You— all  of 
you — perhaps!  You've  been  doing  things  for 
years,  centuries,  making  things.  But  we!  I!" 
He  spoke  with  an  extraordinary  concentration, 
his  lips  baring  his  teeth,  his  eyes  lowered,  his 
nervous  hands  busy  with  the  stick.  "I  haven't 
been  doing  things,  making  things!  I'm  new! 
I've  been  asleep  in  my  people  for  centuries.  Why 
should  I  sleep  now?  It's  morning,  Marcia.  The 
day  is  ahead!" 

Marcia  leaned  toward  him,  her  palms  pressed 
to  her  cheeks  and  her  eyeballs  pushing  gently 
against  their  lids. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  asked,  in  the 
precise  and  powerless  voice  of  horror. 

253 


LAND'S  END 

A  crab  lay  on  its  back  in  the  sand  between 
Gaspard's  knees,  its  belly  gleaming  with  a  moist 
pallor  in  the  night.  The  pointed  stick,  inde- 
fatigably  busy  in  Gaspard's  hands,  entered  the 
belly,  and,  creeping  through  the  flesh  and  the 
nether  shell,  pursued  its  way  into  the  sand.  The 
creature's  claws,  writhing,  made  a  faint  rustling 
sound. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  repeated  in  the 
same  voice. 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  leaving  the  creature 
pinioned.  Marcia  removed  the  stick  and  cast 
it  into  the  water;  then  she,  too,  got  up  and  stood 
with  her  eyes  the  other  way,  shivering  a  little. 

"It  has  no  feeling!"  he  said.  He  was  blowing 
like  a  spent  runner.  "I  hate  things  that  have  no 
feeling!  I  loathe  things  that  have  no  feeling. 
.  .  .  Come  back  to  the  fire!  Please!" 

She  remained  only  a  moment  in  the  warm 
circle,  for  the  early  goers  were  getting  their 
things  together  and  some  already  straggling  up 
across  the  sand-spit,  laughter  and  the  voices  of 
drowsy  children  hanging  behind  them  in  the 
quiet  air.  Gaspard's  face  appeared  at  her 
shoulder,  more  than  ever  swarthy  with  the  red 
of  shame. 

"I  love  you,"  he  whispered.  His  eyes  were  on 
the  hem  of  her  skirt.  "I'm  sorry.  Forgive  me. 
It  made  me  go  kind  of  queer  out  there — in  the 
dark." 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  damp  head.    Just  now 

254 


KED'S    HAND 

he  was  not  the  new  man;  he  was  more  like  a 
little  boy  in  trouble,  shame  mingling  with  a 
wistful  fear  of  things  beyond  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  murmured,  and  there  was  an 
extraordinary  tenderness  in  it.  "You're  tired, 
Gaspard.  Won't  you  come  back  to  the  hotel 
now?  Some  of  them  are  going." 

He  was  himself  at  that,  waving  his  hands. 
"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  Lydia  Klein  is  going  to  do  a 
story  for  the  papers.  It  will  go  all  over  the 
country.  She  wants  to  know  endless  things 
about  me.  I  must!" 

He  kissed  her  hand  with  a  passionate  swiftness 
and  was  away,  virile,  romantic,  clothed  in  the 
sanguine  firelight. 

Marcia  turned  and  followed  shadows  up  the 
sand.  She  was  weary  and  inexpressibly  troubled 
about  life.  At  the  crest,  where  the  sand  fell 
away  again  to  the  water  and  the  thrumming 
launch,  she  stood  irresolute  between  two  fires— 
the  boat  on  the  one  hand,  crowded  with  noise 
and  life  and  lights,  red,  yellow,  and  green,  shining 
through  str'ped  canvas;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
little  globe  of  warmth  which  she  had  left.  She 
could  see  Gaspard  standing  up  in  the  core  of 
it — it  must  be  Gaspard.  Remembering  the  faint 
agony  of  the  crab's  claws,  she  had  a  momentary 
and  irrational  vision  of  herself  lying  there,  with  a 
sharpened  stick  going  through  her,  very  slowly, 
and  on  into  the  sand,  and  Gaspard 's  rapt  face 
hanging  over  her  in  the  night,  far  away.  She 

255 


LAND'S  END 

seemed  to  cry  out,  trying  to  warn  him  of  what 
he  did,  but  her  voice  would  not  touch  him,  and 
he  did  not  understand  till  it  was  too  late.  Then 
she  seemed  to  see  him  leaping  to  his  feet  with  a 
shudder  and  to  hear  him  gasping  fiercely  at  her: 
"  You  have  no  feeling!  I  loathe  things  that  have 
no  feeling!" 

She  was  weak  and  sat  down  on  the  sand.  In 
a  kind  of  mist  she  perceived  the  launch  moving 
off,  its  lights  and  voices  diminishing  across  the 
glassy  water.  A  sense  of  freedom,  like  a  miracle, 
came  over  her.  The  launch  thought  she  was  at 
the  fire,  and  the  fire  thought  she  was  on  the 
launch.  For  a  moment  out  of  life  she  was  alone. 

She  gazed  over  a  shoulder  at  Huddlestone 
Light,  burning  quietly  in  the  dark.  There  was 
something  abiding  and  incorruptible  about  that 
tranquil  beacon,  like  a  Christ  saying,  "Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  heavy-laden,"  and  after 
a  moment  she  went,  walking  through  the  heavy 
sand. 

She  passed  the  lighthouse,  gazing  up  at  the 
wind-polished  clapboards.  The  soft  night  drew 
her  on,  and  mist  touched  her  brow  with  sweet 
fingers.  It  was  no  longer  black  on  the  lower 
levels,  for  the  moon,  heaving  clear  of  the  horizon, 
struck  the  vapors  with  a  suave  and  ghostly 
radiance.  The  fetor  of  land  long  dead  was  in  her 
nostrils — a  rank,  sweet  smell,  heavy  with  peace. 

She  was  not  going  far,  just  a  few  steps.  Then 
she  would  return  and  sit  on  the  ridge  till  the 

256 


KED'S    HAND 

others  came  across  to  take  the  boat.  Just  now 
it  was  something  to  be  lost  out  of  the  world;  to 
be  for  a  moment,  as  it  were,  neither  quick  nor 
dead.  Gaspard  needed  this.  If  she  could  but 
make  him  see.  If  she  could  but  make  him  doubt 
himself,  for  a  moment,  and  his  inexhaustible  fire. 

A  soft  chill  sprang  over  her  foot,  and  when  she 
glanced  down  she  saw  water  gleaming  between 
tufts  of  grass.  She  had  come  far  enough.  Turn 
ing  around,  she  went  back  in  the  direction  from 
which  she  seemed  to  have  come,  moving  in  a  close 
chamber  of  pearl.  Strange  reeds  brushed  her 
knees,  and  her  feet  were  in  water  again.  Some 
thing  rustled  away.  This  time  she  stood  where 
she  was  for  a  moment,  thinking,  till  a  sense  of 
the  marsh's  muddy  lips  sucking  at  her  ankles 
made  her  withdraw  to  firmer  ground.  Mos 
quitoes,  shaken  from  the  reeds,  wove  the  mist. 

Of  a  sudden  she  lifted  her  voice,  calling: 
"Gaspard!  Gaspard!'1 

She  had  not  meant  to  do  that.  Coming  from 
her  own  throat,  the  cry  appalled  her.  She  asked 
herself  what  she  was  doing,  and,  folding  her 
hands,  she  tried  to  remain  relaxed  and  motion 
less.  Mosquitoes  dropped  out  of  the  air  and 
settled  on  her  hands  and  face  and  ankles. 

' '  Gaspard!J '  she  called  again.  ' '  Gaspard!  Gas 
pard!" 

The  sound  was  loud  and  sharp  just  about  her, 
and  then  she  felt  it  going  up  against  the  soft, 
impenetrable  barrier  of  the  fog.  There  were 
17  257 


LAND'S  END 

frogs  somewhere,  and  the  thing  in  the  marsh 
near  her  was  still  rustling.  She  listened  and 
listened,  her  head  thrust  forward  and  inclined 
slightly  to  one  side,  but  all  she  could  hear  was  the 
thing  in  the  marsh  and  the  frogs  and  the  invisible 
mosquito  millions  singing  to  her  nerves.  After 
a  little  she  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  Gaspard's 
voice,  far  away  and  distinct:  "What  if  the  hand 
were  to  close  up  all  of  a  sudden  and  hold  us  here 
forever,  smothered!" 

She  heard,  or  rather  felt,  a  gunshot,  jarring  the 
opaque  air.  It  seemed  to  come  from  somewhere 
behind  her  back.  She  turned  and  went  that  way, 
and  when  she  had  gone  twenty  paces  she  was  free 
of  the  fog,  as  though  she  had  stepped  out  from 
behind  the  drop  to  take  a  call  at  the  theater. 

It  was  queer  stuff,  this  fog  on  Ked's  Hand. 
For  no  reason  it  was  over  there,  and  it  was  not 
here.  In  a  clearing,  perhaps  seventy  yards  across, 
filled  with  moonlight  and  ringed  about  with 
feathery  cliffs  of  the  mist,  a  man  stood  on  the 
margin  of  an  estuary,  leaning  on  the  muzzle  of  a 
shot-gun,  his  head  sunken  forward  and  his 
shoulders  drooping  together,  as  if  he  meditated. 

He  had  a  long,  colorless  beard,  so  thin  that  it 
vanished  like  a  morning  vapor  when  it  passed 
against  the  moon's  reflection  on  the  water.  His 
eyes  were  light,  prominent,  and  half  blind,  but 
his  ears  caught  Marcia's  footfalls  twenty  yards 
away.  He  turned  to  fix  her  with  his  lusterless 
regard. 

258 


KED'S    HAND 

Her  pace  slackened.  Folding  her  hands,  she 
pressed  the  palms  tight  together.  It  was  years 
since  she  had  known  stage-fright,  yet  this  was 
like  it  now,  except  that  the  horror  was  deeper 
and  that  there  was  no  reason  at  all  for  it.  What 
was  she  to  say  to  this  composed  and  ghostly 
figure?  How  was  she  to  break  the  silence  of  this 
place?  Seconds  passed. 

"I'm — lost,"  she  managed  after  a  time. 

The  man  nodded  his  head  slowly,  seeming  to 
think  about  what  she  had  said.  Then  his  eyes 
turned  back  across  the  water  and  he  shifted  the 
gun  into  the  crook  of  his  arm. 

"There's  a  boy  drownded  here,"  he  told  her, 
in  a  high,  lost  voice.  "They  found  his  hat  right 
here  where  I'm  standin'." 

Marcia  moved  nearer,  fascinated  by  the  lam 
bent  serenity  of  the  flood.  In  those  depths  there 
was  nothing  but  the  moon,  round  and  cold.  She 
felt  the  dreadful  beauty  of  the  place  laying  hold 
of  her. 

"I'm  lost,"  she  repeated,  and  again  she  had  a 
sense  that  sound  refused  to  travel  in  this  air. 
"I — I  was  with  a  party." 

"I'm  waitin'  for  the  body  to  rise,"  the  man 
went  on,  wrapped  up  in  his  own  speculations. 
"They  say  if  you  shoot  a  gun  acrost  water  it  '11 
bring  'em  up." 

He  lifted  the  gun  to  his  shoulder  and  felt  for 
the  trigger,  and  the  moon,  coming  out  of  the 
water,  danced  along  the  blue  barrel. 

259 


LAND'S  END 

Marcia  raised  a  hand  in  supplication,  but  her 
voice  seemed  to  have  gone  away.  She  found 
herself  staring  at  the  water  and  waiting,  watching, 
cringing.  Her  pain  grew  deeper  as  the  silence 
continued. 

The  man  lowered  his  gun.  "I  forgot  to  put 
in  another  load,"  he  muttered.  Fumbling  his 
pockets,  he  brought  out  a  fresh  shell  and  slipped 
it  into  the  chamber.  Then,  as  though  he  had 
forgotten  what  he  was  about,  he  leaned  an  arm 
on  the  weapon's  muzzle  and  brooded  out  across 
the  lagoon. 

"It's  my  boy  Sim,"  he  said.  "He  was  a  good 
boy.  Black,  curly  hair.  They  found  his  hat 
right  here  where  I'm  standin'.  Sometimes  it 
seems  years  since  yeste'day  when  it  happened." 

His  skin  was  the  color  of  old  ivory  in  the  moon 
light,  and  his  drooping,  bloodless  lips  twitched 
at  the  corners  with  an  ordered  rhythm,  like  a 
pulse.  Instead  of  pity,  Marcia  was  filled  with 
an  uneasy  dread.  The  man's  bereavement  was 
somehow  monstrous,  ghastly,  dispassionate;  there 
was  no  feeling,  no  reality.  Growing  angry,  she 
grasped  his  arm  to  shake  it,  and  then  her  hand 
dropped  away  again,  for  it  was  as  though  her 
fingers  had  closed  on  a  naked  bone  beneath  the 
cloth  of  the  sleeve.  He  looked  at  her  with  his 
vacant  eyes,  opaque  in  the  serene  illumination. 

"What —    Who  are  you?"  she  gasped. 

He  answered  in  a  narrative  tone,  as  flat  and 

stale  as  the  marsh. 

260 


KED'S    HAND 

"I'm  Godsend  Ked.  Old  one,  that  is.  Young 
Godsend  is  brother  to  that  one,  y'u  understand, 
under  the  water  there.  He's  ..." 

"I  don't  want  to  know!"  she  cried.  "I  want 
to  go  back  to  the  others.  Right  away,  please! 
Do  you  hear?  I'll  pay  you — anything!" 

The  old  man  nodded  slowly,  as  if  turning  it 
over  in  his  mind,  and  then,  presenting  his  back  to 
her,  moved  off  along  the  margin  of  the  water, 
without  a  word.  Marcia  would  have  said  that 
they  ought  to  go  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
misgiving  followed  her  all  the  way  across  the 
crystal  space.  But  when  the  fog  had  swallowed 
up  the  moon  and  made  Old  Ked  a  moving  blur, 
she  forgot  this  in  the  need  for  keeping  track  of 
him,  for  she  did  not  want  to  be  alone  again  on 
Ked's  Hand.  She  did  lose  him  once  or  twice  in 
the  glittering  pall,  and  then  she  ran,  tripping 
through  angled  reeds,  to  see  him. 

She  had  no  way  of  knowing  how  far  they  went. 
Sand,  rushes,  mat  of  wild  cranberry,  passed 
through  the  dim  circle  of  vision  underfoot. 
Once  there  was  a  bridge  of  twin  logs  with  bits  of 
plank  fastened  crosswise  and  a  ditch  of  water 
shining  beneath  like  the  face  of  a  black  pearl. 
Silence  oppressed  her,  and  yet  she  was  afraid 
to  raise  her  voice  for  fear  of  hearing  his  again. 
He  was  leading  her — where?  She  had  told  him 
she  was  with  a  party;  now  it  came  to  her  of  a 
sudden  that  he  had  not  asked  her  where  the 
party  was. 

261 


LAND'S  END 

"  Listen  I"  she  cried,  catching  up  to  pluck  his 
shoulder.  "  Listen!  Please!" 

Her  voice  startled  him  and  he  shrank  away 
from  her  touch.  When  he  turned  his  eyes  over  a 
shoulder  she  saw  by  their  dull  amazement  that 
he  had  forgotten  she  was  there.  She  stood  still 
with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  cheeks  while  he 
went  on  and  merged  with  the  veil.  Dimly  she 
heard  his  footfalls  receding,  a  soft  pad,  pad, 
pad;  then  he  seemed  to  be  getting  over  some 
thing,  for  there  was  a  sound  of  grunting,  a 
senile  complaint,  and  the  ring  of  gunstock  strik 
ing  wood. 

A  light,  stronger  than  the  moon,  was  in  the 
mist ;  the  mist  itself  rocked  with  a  strange  wind, 
and  Marcia's  ears  were  deafened.  She  put  her 
hands  over  them. 

"He  shot  the  gun,"  she  told  herself.  It  was 
simple.  He  had  shot  the  gun.  She  tried  to 
laugh.  She  was  shivering  all  over. 

Taking  her  hands  away,  she  listened  and  heard 
nothing,  not  even  the  pad,  pad  of  his  boots. 
She  moved  forward,  curiously  blind,  groping  the 
mist  with  outstretched  arms.  Her  hands  found 
the  top  rail  of  a  fence,  gray  and  polished  like 
satin,  and,  resting  her  weight  against  it,  she 
peered  at  the  ground  beyond — and  the  human 
wreckage  cast  down  there,  dim,  misshapen, 
eloquent  of  disaster.  She  crossed  her  arms  on  the 
rail  and  buried  her  face  in  them,  and  after  a 
moment  a  sound  came  out  of  her  throat. 

262 


KED'S    HAND 

She  heard  a  voice  from  beyond  the  fence,  by 
and  by,  questioning,  impatient. 

"  What's  the  ruction  there?  Who  is  it?  What's 
wrong?  Say!" 

She  pointed  without  uncovering  her  eyes. 
Hearing  no  further  sound,  and  sensing  that  the 
owner  of  the  voice  came  toward  her,  she  looked 
up  presently  to  find  him  standing  with  his  elbow 
on  the  fence  and  his  eyes  studying  the  dun 
catastrophe.  She  fell  back  a  step,  shaken. 

"Ckupardl" 

Turning  his  head,  the  man  regarded  her  sus 
piciously  from  under  the  shadow  of  his  slouch 
hat.  "Gaspard?  Gaspard  who?" 

"Oh!"  Marcia's  hand  went  to  her  throat. 
It  was  all  so  queer  that  she  wanted  to  laugh, 
even  in  the  presence  of  death.  "Oh,  I — I — 
You're  very  like—  For  a  moment,  I  thought— 

"I  was  Gaspard?  Don't  know  'im.  My 
name's  Ked.  Godsend  Ked.  That's  my  father 
there— what's  left." 

It  was  like  a  dream,  where  nothing  counted; 
his  words  ran  in  with  the  velvet  pallor  of  the 
night,  engrossed,  passionless,  like  a  sound  of 
claws,  it  seemed  to  Marcia,  rustling  over  sand. 
She  remembered  Gaspard  and  his  sharpened 
stick,  and  now  she  almost  understood. 

"What  happened?"  she  heard  the  other  asking, 
in  the  same  sluggard  voice.  "How'd  he  come 
to  blow  'imself  that  way?  Or  did  you  do  it? 

Or  what?" 

263 


LAND'S  END 

That  frightened  her.  "No,  no — no!  He  was 
climbing  the  fence.  He  loaded  the  gun  out  there 
where  his  boy — you  know —  He  was  shooting 
over  the  water  out  here,  and — " 

"Again?" 

"Again?"  Her  wonder  hung  in  the  quiet  air. 
She  shook  herself  savagely.  "I  am  sorry  to 
obtrude;  I  hope  you  will  understand,  but  I  shall 
have  to  beg  you  to  find  me  a  guide.  I  have  lost 
my  party,  I  don't  know  my  way;  I  am  quite  at 
the  mercy  of  anything  here.  I  am  willing  to 
pay  anything,  in  or  out  of  reason — if  you  will 
only  hurry — please." 

The  young  one  nodded  thoughtfully  as  the  old 
one  had  done.  He  picked  up  the  shot-gun,  ex 
amined  it,  and  handed  it  to  her,  saying,  "You'll 
have  to  carry  this."  The  barrel  was  still  warm  in 
her  palm.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  it  while  another 
burden  was  lifted  from  the  ground,  and  then, 
getting  between  the  bars,  she  followed,  guided 
by  a  muffled  and  laborious  breathing  and  boot- 
soles  sucking  in  swampy  turf. 

A  doorway  of  yellow  light  opened  before  her, 
framing  the  silhouette  of  the  two  Godsends,  and 
after  a  moment  she  followed  in,  obedient  to  a 
word  cast  back. 

The  room  was  spacious,  high-studded,  done  in 
an  old  faith  of  architecture.  Discolored  wains 
coting  paneled  the  lower  walls,  and  above  them 
the  plaster  was  mottled  as  a  shrike's  egg  with  the 

damp   of   degenerating   years.     What   little   of 

264 


KED'S    HAND 

furniture  there  was  seemed  broken,  exquisite,  and 
old.  A  lamp  on  a  table  of  scarred  Sheraton  in  the 
center  gave  out  a  brown  light,  smoked  and  feeble. 
Had  it  been  a  little  feebler  yet,  one  might  have 
forgotten  the  decay  and  summoned  up  the 
ghosts  of  strong  and  beautiful  people  in  that  old 
chamber. 

The  people  there  in  the  flesh  were  neither 
strong  nor  beautiful.  It  was  hard  to  say  how 
many  there  were.  Like  the  colorless  things  on 
the  under  side  of  a  field-stone,  they  so-ght 
shadow,  inhabiting  corners,  crowding  in  ob 
scurity,  careless  of  contact.  Twitching,  they 
made  no  sound.  The  head  of  a  very  old  woman 
was  to  be  seen,  and  beside  it  the  head  of 
a  baby,  both  of  them  toothless,  bald,  the  skin 
drawn  taut  over  the  framework  gleaming  in  the 
high-lights;  oddly  identical  heads,  staring  fixedly 
in  the  same  direction. 

Marcia,  following  the  gaze,  turned  her  eyes 
over  her  shoulder.  The  dead  man  lay  on  an 
other  table  by  the  wall  behind  her  back.  She 
saw  his  boots  and  the  worn  trousers  above  them, 
flattening  away  from  the  keen  ridges  of  his  leg- 
bones.  Queer  things  suggested  themselves  to 
her;  she  breathed  an  opiate  in  the  ropy  air,  and 
for  a  moment,  under  the  urge  of  all  those  rapt, 
converging  eyes,  she  felt  a  desire  to  keep  on  turn 
ing  her  head  till  she  came  to  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  an  eagerness,  breathless  and  almost  be 
yond  control,  to  snatch  a  glimpse  of  what  had 

265 


LAND'S  END 

happened  when  the  gun  went  off  in  the  mist  out 
of  doors. 

She  got  herself  straight  with  an  effort  that  left 
her  weak  and  shivering  and  conscious  of  a  per 
sonal  filth.  She  appealed:  " Please!  Somebody! 
I  wish  to  go!" 

The  younger  Godsend  came  toward  her  out 
of  the  populous  shadows,  carrying  a  bottle  and 
a  teacup. 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  you/'  he  said,  with  a  strain 
of  petulance.  "Only  you  better  have  a  mite  o' 
this  first.  You're  white." 

He  took  off  his  hat,  endowing  himself  with  a 
survival  of  gentility,  somehow  shocking.  Marcia 
pushed  away  the  cup.  Moved  by  some  thought 
or  emotion  too  diaphanous  for  expression,  the 
man  stared  into  it  for  a  moment;  then,  lifting  it 
to  his  lips,  swallowed  the  shot  and  put  down  the 
cup  and  the  bottle  beside  the  lamp. 

He  was  ready  to  go,  but  he  lingered  there  for  a 
moment,  leaning  on  his  hands  and  letting  his 
eyes  drift  away  to  the  other  table  beside  the  wall. 
Marcia  waited  while  the  moment  lengthened  into 
many,  her  attention  fastened  upon  the  face  hang 
ing  in  the  sulphur  light,  grayish  brown,  worn 
like  a  blade  by  blood  turned  back  too  many  times 
upon  itself,  curiously  dead,  and  as  curiously  alive 
with  a  still,  insidious  nervousness.  He  was  as 
like  the  old  woman  as  she  was  like  the  baby,  and 
they  were  all  as  like  as  eggs  in  a  nest. 

He  seemed  to  be  giving  himself  up.    Once  he 

266 


KED'S    HAND 

moved,  but  it  was  only  to  sink  down  into  a  chair 
with  his  arms  spread  on  the  table.  His  eyes, 
like  the  rest,  kindled  with  a  slow  and  exotic 
animation.  The  breath  of  the  marsh  dwelt  in 
the  room.  Mosquitoes  came  in  at  the  door, 
wound  the  air,  invisible,  or  dropped  out  of  it  to 
sting.  A  clock  ticked  slowly  behind  Marcia's 
back,  so  slowly  that  it  seemed  ten  seconds  elapsed 
between  the  successive  beats.  The  old  woman 
was  speaking  in  a  rapt  and  weightless  voice : 

"I  'member.  I  'member.  'Twas  my  own 
grandfather,  Abner  Ked.  And  he  come  ashore  in 
his  dory  that  time  with  his  mate's  co'pse.  I 
'member.  I  'member." 

Once,  when  playing  the  Southern  States, 
Marcia  More  had  been  taken  to  a  negro  camp- 
meeting,  and  she  recalled  a  moment  when  some 
thing  seemed  to  break  in  the  air,  the  lights 
dimmed,  a  raptured  horror  smote  black  faces,  and 
the  shadows  of  the  devils  of  the  jungle  tiptoed 
through  the  pack,  shaking  them  like  a  reed.  .  .  . 

"He'd  been  adrift  two  weeks,  and  he'd  eat 
off  one  o'  the  legs,  Abner  did.  He'd  eat  off  one  o' 
Martin  Ked's  legs.  Did  I  say  'twas  the  right 
one  .  .  .?" 

They  were  shaken  like  a  reed.  Their  blood 
beat  all  with  one  pulse  and  shadow  knit  them 
together.  Behind  Marcia's  back  the  clock  ticked 
on,  more  slowly. 

Something  was  busy  in  her  brain  now,  ir 
rational,  untiring,  putting  away  obstacles,  lead- 

267 


LAND'S  END 

ing  her  along  blind  passages  and  through  im 
penetrable  walls,  till  she  stood  on  the  floor  of  a 
dream  and  heard  her  own  voice,  as  a  stranger's, 
pleading  with  the  man  at  the  table: 

"Gaspard!  Why  are  you  doing  it?  Gaspard, 
dear,  what  is  the  use?  What  are  you  driving  at? 
Why  do  you  take  all  this  trouble,  Gaspard? 
What  do  you  want  to  show  me,  and  who  are  all — 
these?  And  why  do  you  look  that  way?" 

The  man  turned  on  her,  wincing,  and  all  about 
him  in  the  room  she  had  a  sense  of  things  falling 
to  pieces.  Something  was  shattered;  an  exquisite 
balance  had  been  destroyed.  Faces  confronted 
her  from  the  dusk,  masks  twitching  with  a  raw 
and  ineffectual  anger,  like  the  faces  of  devotees 
robbed  of  their  drug  by  a  sudden  hand. 

She  rubbed  her  eyes.  "What  am  I  saying? 
Why  do  you  look  so  like  Gaspard?"  She 
stretched  out  her  hands,  beseeching.  "You 
promised!  You  promised!  You  wouldn't  go 
back  on  your  promise.  Some  one  will  take  me!" 

His  eyes  were  clouded  and  as  frightened  as  her 
own.  She  fawned  on  him. 

"Please!  Now!  I'll  tell  you  where  they  are, 
my  people,  and  you'll  take  me  right  away. 
They're  near  the  place  where  your  father  was — 
you  know — where  he  went  to  shoot  over  the 
water— 

Her  voice  trailed  off.  And  now  a  new  thing, 
taking  shape  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  drove  her 
on  inexorably.  "You  remember  you  said, 

268 


KED'S    HAND 

'Again?'  when  I  told  you  that  out  there?  Why 
did  you  say — '  Again?'  What  made  you  say  it — 
'Again?'— like  that?" 

He  stared  at  her  with  Gaspard's  frightened 
eyes,  and  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue,  as 
Gaspard  did. 

"He  was  always  doin'  it,  that's  why." 

"  Always?  What  do  you  mean?  WTiy  do  you 
talk  like  a  crazy  person?  The  boy  was  drowned 
yesterday" 

11  It's  you  that's  crazy  here.  He  was  twins  with 
me,  and  that  was  twenty  year — nearer  twenty- 
five — ago." 

Marcia  took  hold  of  the  edge  of  the  table.  '  'But 
he  was  drowned,  you  know!  He  was — dead!" 

"Some  says — 

"But  they  found  his  hat!" 

"Some  says — " 

"But-     But—" 

"Some  says  there  was  gipsies  about. .  .  .  Why?" 

"Nothing!  Nothing,  nothing!  You  believe 
me,  don't  you?  Nothing!" 

She  was  consumed  by  the  necessity  for  making 
him  understand  that  she  meant  nothing,  and  she 
was  conscious  of  a  kind  of  triumph  when  his 
eyes  wandered  away  from  hers  and  back  to  the 
table  beside  the  wall. 

Time  went  on,  meted  out  by  the  lagging  pulse 
of  that  clock  behind  her  back.  Her  mind  centered 
upon  it,  and  she  found  herself  awaiting  the  beat 
with  an  unaccountable  tension. 

269 


LAND'S  END 

The  old  woman's  voice  grew  audible  once  more: 

"I  was  on  the  beach  that  time,  I  was.  I  seen 
the  stump,  I  did.  The  stump  o'  the  dead  one's 
leg.  'Twas  dry,  like  a  piece  o'  leather." 

That  was  a  queer  clock.  Its  beat,  now  that  she 
listened  so  closely,  was  not  metallic,  as  a  clock's 
beat  should  be.  It  was  more  like  a  fluid  impact. 

"Dry  as  leather.  He'd  been  adrift  two  weeks, 
Abner  Ked  had,  and  he  was  thirsty — awful 
thirsty.  .  .  ." 

It  was  more  like  something  falling  on  the 
floor — drip,  drip,  drip.  Marcia  put  her  hands 
over  her  ears  and  fled.  .  .  . 

Somehow  or  other  she  was  out  in  the  dark, 
and  mist  blew  in  her  face  and  her  feet  were 
running.  It  was  blind  work,  for  there  was  no 
light  at  all  now,  not  even  enough  to  see  her 
swinging  hands  or  the  earth  passing  under  her 
feet.  It  seemed  natural  to  her  that  the  world 
should  be  black;  it  was  natural,  for  the  moon 
was  in  eclipse,  though  she  failed  to  think  of  that. 
Reckless  of  where  she  fled,  the  guardian  angel  of 
the  reckless  saved  her  by  miracles.  She  bruised 
herself  on  an  invisible  fence.  Once  she  tripped 
and  went  down  sprawling,  her  face  in  sedges. 
Once  she  found  water  rising  about  her  knees, 
but  instead  of  turning  she  floundered  on  and  after 
a  little  the  water  shoaled  again,  gave  place  to 
mud,  and  then  to  turf.  The  moon  came  out  a 
little  from  the  earth's  shadow,  and  a  phantom 
light  crept  abroad. 

270 


KED'S    HAND 

There  were  voices,  some  far  off,  some  nearer 
at  hand,  hallooing:  "Marcia  More!  Mar  da 
Mover 

She  wanted  to  answer  them,  but  something 
seemed  to  break  in  her  mind,  and  she  began  to 
sob  and  stumble.  And,  stumbling,  she  came 
upon  Gaspard  Kroon,  motionless  and  mute  in 
the  fog,  and  buried  her  face  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  she  heard  him  saying. 
"" They're  hunting  you.  The  launch-man  said 
he  hadn't  seen  you,  and  they  thought  you  were 
lost.  They're  hunting  you.  Hear  them?" 

She  would  not  understand.  Instinctively,  for 
the  moment,  she  refused  to  make  head  or  tail  of  it. 
But  in  the  following  silence,  ruffled  only  by  the 
distant  hails  of  the  searchers,  wonder  forced 
itself  inexorably  upon  her,  a  formless  uneasiness, 
changing  to  dread.  Why  was  it  they,  and  not 
he,  who  searched?  Why  did  he  not  call  to  them, 
telling  the  news?  Why  was  he,  the  soul  of  flame, 
become  of  a  sudden  so  mindless,  inert,  and  still, 
and  why  was  she  so  cold? 

"Tell  them,"  she  begged,  with  her  face  still 
hidden. 

"Yes,  yes.    In  a  minute." 

Somehow  or  other  she  knew  that  he  was 
nodding  his  head  with  an  assumption  of  deep 
sagacity,  seeming  to  turn  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind,  and  she  knew  what  his  face  was  like,  for 
she  had  lately  seen  its  mate. 

He  took  his  hands  away  and  sat  down  on  the 

271 


LAND'S  END 

turf,  leaving  her  to  crouch  alone,  staring  at  him. 
His  wrists  hung  down  between  his  knees  and  his 
eyes  were  open  wide,  brooding  at  nothing.  He, 
too,  seemed  to  be  giving  himself  up  to  a  seductive 
acquiescence. 

"I've  just  found  out  what  peace  means,"  he 
told  her,  dreaming.  Languor  blurred  his  words. 
"Peace!  Quiet!  To  let  down  and  be  nothing, 
and  care  about  nothing.  You  were  right." 

She  tried  to  close  her  eyes,  for  in  the  queer 
half-light  it  was  not  the  face  of  the  Gaspard  she 
knew,  but  the  face  of  the  brother — the  face  of  the 
man  standing  by  the  estuary,  and  of  the  old 
woman  and  the  young  baby,  back  there  behind 
her  in  that  chamber  of  degeneration.  Mosquitoes 
settled  upon  it,  but  it  gave  no  sign  that  it  felt, 
save  for  an  occasional  twitching  at  the  corners 
of  the  lips.  .  .  .  She  had  a  vision  of  a  great, 
marsh-scarred  hand  curving  and  closing  irre 
sistibly,  to  claim  its  own. 

1 1  It  would  be  nice  to  sleep  here  to-night,  in  the 
moonlit  fog."  His  words  drifted  to  her  across  a 
thousand  miles. 

When  Hoff  and  the  others  heard  Marcia's  voice 
lifting  in  the  mist,  they  turned  and  ran  that  way, 
spurred  by  a  curious  sensation  of  disaster,  and 
found  her  with  her  husband,  who  seemed  to  be 
as  lost  as  she.  She  was  so  glad  to  see  them. 
She  begged  of  them  with  a  shaken  and  pathetic 

eagerness,  "Please  let's  all  go  quickly!" 

272 


KED'S    HAND 

Once  in  the  launch  and  free  of  the  shore,  the 
two  sat  close  together  in  the  stern.  Gaspard 
seemed  dazed  and  vaguely  embarrassed,  like  a 
haunted  boy.  Marcia  was  weak  as  a  babe,  and 
as  a  babe  she  breathed  of  life.  The  engine's 
staccato  thrumming  was  music;  the  wind  of 
motion  coming  across  clean  water  touched  fire 
to  her  cheeks;  the  continuous,  subdued  conflict 
of  voices,  lights,  and  colors  pulled  her  up.  And 
she  knew  that  they  and  she  together  must  pull 
Gaspard  up. 

"What  shall  we  do  to-morrow?"  she  pro 
pounded,  launching  out  desperately  upon  the 
future.  "I'd  like  to  go  back  to  town.  Would 

you?" 

"Yes—  Yes.  Town."  He  passed  a  hand 
across  his  brow  and  turned  his  eyes  astern. 
"That's  a  queer  place  back  there." 

"Yes,  queer  enough.  What  of  it?  Places  are 
queer."  Her  words  were  light,  but  her  nails 
were  gnawing  in  her  palms.  "You  must  forget 
it,  Gaspard!"  That  last  went  on  repeating  itself 
over  in  her  brain — "You  must  forget  it — forget 
it—" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,"  he  con 
tinued,  uneasily.  "It's  somehow  very  horrible, 
and  yet—  It's  like  a  drink  you  hate  the  taste  of, 
and  yet  want.  Sitting  there,  for  a  moment— 
You  know,  Marcia,  I—  Well — I  can't  say. 
What  is  it  about  Ked's  Hand?" 

"Nothing!  Nothing!  It's  just  queer,  and 
18  273 


LAND'S  END 

you  have  to  let  it  go  at  that,  dear!"  She  saw 
him  wince,  and  discovered  that  she  was  pinching 
his  arm  cruelly.  "I  know  what  it  is,"  she  shifted 
of  a  sudden.  "It's  simply  that  it's  old  and  low 
and  heavy  there,  and  you  happen  to  be  just  the 
other  things."  She  must  make  him  believe  this 
now,  passionately — for  his  soul,  and  especially 
hers,  hung  upon  it.  "You  happen  to  be  precisely 
the  other  things,  Gaspard — new  and  high  and 
raw  and  leaping!  Can  you  see  it  now,  Gaspard? 
That's  night,  back  there,  and  you're  morning. 
Eh?" 

She  had  made  him  believe  it.  She  had  done 
more  than  make  him  believe  it,  perhaps;  for  by 
making  him  believe  it,  if  there  be  any  meat  in 
faith,  she  had  made  it  true. 

"That's  so,"  he  murmured.  He  shook  his 
shoulders,  and  color  came  back  to  his  face. 
"That's  so,  Marcia.  We  wouldn't  get  along 
together,  it  and  I,  would  we?" 

Ked's  Hand  had  become  very  faint  now,  no 
more  than  a  pale  ribbon  stretched  across  the 
night,  with  a  solitary  star  shining  over  it.  Gas 
pard  swept  it  all  into  the  limbo  of  oblivion  with 
one  of  his  old,  volcanic  gestures. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "Let's  talk  with  every 
body.  Lydia  Klein  tells  me  I'm  to  be  amazing 
this  winter,  and  do  astounding  big  things.  .  .  . 
Lydia!  Oh,  Lydia  Klein!  Marcia  wants  to 
hear!" 

"Yes,"  said  Marcia,  "I  do  so  want  to  hear." 

274 


"  ROMANCE" 


OPRING  was  born  that  afternoon,  just  before 
w  evening  began  to  come  down.  Three  days 
and  nights  the  Equinox  had  labored,  darkening 
all  the  coasts  and  crying  out  with  the  agony  of 
shattered  waters;  and  now,  suddenly,  the  thing 
was  done;  an  inscrutable  warm  essence  ran 
through  the  city  streets,  the  smoke  of  chimneys 
and  the  pennons  on  the  tall  masts  along  the 
docks  veered  to  the  northeast,  and  out  there 
where  the  pennons  pointed,  the  foggy  dregs  of 
the  gale  drained  away  to  sea,  leaving  the  islands 
clear  crimson  in  the  sunset.  Nondescript  people 
on  ferry-boats  craned  up  at  the  sky,  straightened 
cravats  or  flicked  dust  from  their  clothes  without 
knowing  why  they  did  it  and  looked  forward 
to  a  medley  of  quite  ordinary  evenings  with  an 
extraordinary  and  unaccountable  excitement. 
Dogs,  back  in  the  Fens,  tugged  unnaturally  at 
their  leashes.  A  thin  young  woman,  who  coughed 
behind  her  hand  when  she  was  sure  no  one 
watched,  stood  outside  the  employees'  exit  of 

275 


LAND'S  END 

the  " Great  White  Store"  on  Washington  Street, 
weighing  a  nickel  in  her  palm.  The  nickel  was 
car  fare,  or  a  " movie."  Which?  She  raised  her 
face  to  the  soft,  flaming  sky.  It  was  spring! 

Down  in  the  lower  city,  "  Notes  "  was  practising 
a  pair  of  dance  steps  on  the  splintery  planks  at 
the  end  of  the  fish-dock.  "Notes"  was  very 
young  and  enthusiastic,  and  one  day,  when  he 
had  time,  he  would  write  a  novel — something 
with  color  in  it.  That  is  why  the  city  editor 
had  sent  him  down  to  T  Wharf  to-day.  Not  a 
vessel  had  stirred  out  since  the  gale  closed  down, 
and  not  a  vessel  had  come  in  through  the  smother. 
The  docks  had  been  dead  for  three  days.  It 
would  be  good  for  the  young  chap. 

Every  one  had  gone  home  at  this  hour  except 
"Notes"  and  the  old  lookout  on  the  balcony  of 
the  Fish  Commission;  even  the  schooners, 
packed  like  matches  in  the  basin,  had  a  deserted 
look,  for  the  new  something  in  the  air  had  sent 
their  crews  up  into  the  city.  The  young  fellow 
called  up  to  the  lookout,  half  in  question: 

"Nothing  doing  to-night?" 

"Don't  'magine  so,  son."  The  old  fellow 
combed  his  whiskers  with  hard  fingers.  "The 
fleet  '11  be  hidin'  out  'minder  the  Cape  someYs. 
Them  as  got  fish  '11  be  driftin'  in  in  the  mornin', 
I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Well,  I'll  be  running  along."  "Notes" 
lingered  for  one  last  rehearsal  of  the  dance  steps. 
The  lookout  stopped  combing  his  whiskers. 

276 


"ROMANCE" 

"By  Godfrey!  there's  a  lucky  fool!"  He 
turned  and  bawled  down  the  dock.  "Hey  there, 
son,  might  wait  a  second.  'Magine  thet's 
somebody  outside  the  island  there,  to  win'. " 

"  Notes "  ran  up  the  stairs,  bouncing  un 
reasonably  on  account  of  the  air.  Together  they 
watched  the  smoke-flower  of  a  tugboat  come 
along  the  island's  ridge,  and  behind  it  two  slim, 
pink  feathers,  that  were  the  after  sails  of  a  tow 
ing  schooner.  The  two  craft  came  along  and  de 
bouched  from  the  island's  tip  into  the  open  fair 
way,  the  one  dingy  and  active,  the  other  luminous, 
unhurried,  like  a  rosy  argosy  returning. 

"By  George!"  The  boy  turned  to  the  old 
man.  "  What  made  him  try  it?" 

"Jest  to  do  it — no  thin'  in  the  world  but  to  do 
it.  He's  a  devil;  thet  Ginny  there — a  plain, 
simple,  square-rigged  devil." 

"By  jingo!     Immense!" 

"Mmmm!"  The  ancient  flicked  his  whiskers 
with  a  gesture  of  impatient  scorn.  "Holler,  son, 
holler!  I  caFlate  ye'd  holler  louder  if  ye  hed  an 
idee  what  them  boys  've  been  through.  Know 
what  the  bay  outside  there  looks  like?  Eh? 
Looks  like  nothin' — because  ye  can't  see  it. 
Can't  stand  up;  can't  lay  down.  Decks  awash 
an'  everything  adrift  below-decks.  Scud  cuttin' 
the  riggin'  to  pieces.  All  hands  hangin'  on  fer 
dear  life  an'  prayin'  to  them  Ginny  saints  o' 
their'n.  Holler,  son!" 

"Notes,"  quite  impervious  to  the  other's 
277 


LAND'S  END 

irony,  leaned  on  the  railing  and  watched  the 
luminous  wanderer.  The  towboat  had  veered 
off  now,  and  a  soiled  manikin  in  its  stern  hauled 
in  the  line  hand  over  hand,  the  water  feathering 
pink  at  each  successive  jerk.  The  schooner, 
towering  like  a  tranquil  flame  in  the  sun's  death- 
glare,  moved  forward  almost  imperceptibly.  A 
shadow  from  the  high  buildings  beyond  Atlantic 
Avenue  came  out,  swallowed  the  hull  and  clam 
bered  up  the  masts,  and  she  lay  in  the  outer  fringe 
of  the  basin,  only  the  peak  of  her  mainsail  keeping 
the  sun,  a  lofty,  three-cornered  beacon,  like  a 
flaming  covenant  with  memory.  Below  that 
beacon  was  a  havoc.  Lines  were  adrift  in  the 
standing-gear;  a  tub,  overturned  in  the  scuppers 
aft,  spewed  out  its  trawl  along  the  deck,  sopping 
and  tangled  like  a  witch's  hair.  The  deck  amid 
ships  looked  curiously  lopsided,  because  half  the 
dories  were  gone  from  the  starboard  nest;  their 
lashings,  broken  at  the  knots,  writhed  on  the 
planks. 

From  his  height  above  the  field  of  decks, 
"Notes"  watched  the  crew  making  the  vessel 
fast — small,  far-away,  tired  figures,  ragged,  their 
heads  all  alike  in  shiny  round  oil-hats,  one  of 
them  with  his  arm  swathed  and  bound  across  his 
chest.  " Notes"  wondered  how  long  it  was  since 
they  had  slept,  and  even  as  he  speculated  one 
of  the  tattered  figures  straightened  up  and  ges 
ticulated  toward  the  city  cliffs,  where  rows  of 
lights  began  to  twinkle  in  the  dusk,  with  a 

278 


"ROMANCE" 

feeling  of  exuberance  and  anticipation  that 
carried  clear  to  him  across  the  basin.  A  blue 
smudge  trailed  up  from  the  galley  stovepipe;  a 
man  stopped  to  spread  his  palms  in  it;  and 
"Notes,"  because  he  was  so  young,  could  almost 
feel  the  warmth  in  his  own  palms. 

"Say!  Say!"  He  clapped  the  rail.  "To 
come  out  of  that" — he  waved  both  hands  wildly 
toward  the  waning  cloud-wrack  beyond  the 
island — "to  come  out  of  that — into  this!  Why, 
man,  it's  a  fourth  act.  They  ought  to  live  happy 
ever  after,  eh?  Stunning!"  He  looked  up  at  the 
sky.  In  the  dying  glow  of  the  zenith  one  star 
appeared,  so  suddenly  that  it  was  like  a  dim 
explosion.  "This,"  said  "Notes,"  "is  romance. 
Just  plain,  sheer  romance."  He  clapped  his 
companion  between  the  shoulder-blades.  "Well, 
be  good.  I've  got  to  run.  I  want  to  write  this 
thing  while  it's  hot!" 

He  was  half-way  to  the  office,  booming  along 
in  the  tunnel,  before  he  happened  to  think  that 
he  had  neglected  to  ask  the  vessel's  name,  or  her 
captain's.  But,  after  all — color!  He  had  the 
color,  all  right.  Warm  crimson,  with  a  shadow 
of  angry,  hard  gray  behind  it.  And  the  smoke 
curling  up  from  the  galley  stovepipe,  blue  and 
acrid.-1— Romance ! 

ii 

The  last  light  drained  out  of  the  sky  and  a 
multitude  of  stars  prickled  through  the  masts 

279 


LAND'S  END 

in  the  crowded  basin.  Down  in  the  forecastle 
of  the  Valerie,  Justin  Jason,  the  "  plain,  simple, 
square-rigged  devil' '  of  the  lookout's  panegyric, 
was  "mugging  up,"  his  elbows  planted  wide  on 
the  table,  a  triangle  of  pie  in  one  hand  and  a 
saucer  of  tea  in  the  other.  He  was  a  thick-set, 
swarthy  fellow  of  forty,  a  sober  man,  with  the 
flaring  mustachio  of  a  swashbuckler,  the  begin 
nings  of  a  paunch  under  his  belt,  and  a  brace  of 
sons,  the  younger  of  them  almost  half  his  own  age. 

The  two  were  there  now,  fidgeting  along  the 
bench,  drifting  aimlessly  in  and  out  of  the  galley, 
staring  out  through  the  open  square  of  the 
companionway  and  sniffing  curiously  at  the  air. 
Now  and  then  they  cast  significant  sidelong 
glances  at  each  other  and  then  back  nervously 
at  the  silent  man  across  the  table.  If  he  would 
only  say  something — no  matter  what.  They  had 
shifted  to  their  "  shore  clothes,"  their  hard  collars, 
and  hard  hats;  they  were  acutely  aware  that  he 
had  observed  them  doing  it,  yet  he  had  said 
nothing.  He  continued  to  brood  over  his 
"mug,"  his  brow  puckered  slightly. 

"Aw,  come  on  ashore,  pa."  "Hands,"  the 
younger,  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  endurance. 

Justin  Jason  raised  his  eyes  slowly.  "'Shore? 
Yes!  Yaaas!  What  for?  Huh?" 

"Aw,  have  some  fun." 

"Come  on,  pa."  John,  the  elder,  rubbed  the 
point  of  a  russet  shoe  with  one  hand,  avoiding  his 
father's  eyes.  "Come  on,  le's  go  up  to  the  Swede's." 

280 


"ROMANCE" 

"You  make  me  tired,  the  both  of  you!" 
Justin  Jason  glowered  at  the  pie  in  one  hand 
and  the  tea  in  the  other.  "This  city  makes  me 
tired.  Everything  makes  me  tired — working — 
loafing— everything.  Why,  hell—  He  slammed 
the  saucer  down,  spattering,  on  the  table,  and 
cast  the  pie  to  the  floor.  "I'm  tired  of  eating, 
I  tell  you!" 

He  got  to  his  feet  with  an  unnecessary  violence 
and  stood  beneath  the  companionway,  staring  up 
at  the  stars  and  muttering.  "I  wonder  what's 
ailing  of  me.  I'm  tired  of  eating." 

"Aw,  come  be  a  sport,  pa!  Come  on  up  to 
the  Swede's." 

"Shut  up,  the  both  of  you!'*  He  wheeled 
fiercely.  "You  want  to  go  get  soused  and  make 
faces  at  broke-down  women  on  the  street.  Fun! 
Paah!—  Cook!"  He  turned  to  a  shadowy, 
silent  figure  leaning  against  the  after  side  of  the 
ladder.  "Cook,  I'm  tired  of  eating.  What's 
ailing  of  me?" 

"The  year  is  on  the  make." 

He  was  a  queer  piece,  this  cook,  an  enigma  in 
the  fleet,  a  man  without  lineage  or  friend  or  birth 
place — a  bit  of  wreckage  cast  up  on  the  docks. 
He  spoke  but  rarely,  and  then  with  a  precise 
diction  and  an  inscrutable  barbed  quality,  per 
haps  of  derision.  Justin  Jason  stared  at  him, 
another  shade  of  red  on  his  cheeks.  Why  could 
the  fellow  never  talk  straight? 

"Romance!     Romance!"  the  oracle  went  on 

281 


LAND'S  END 

in  his  musing,  level  voice.  "It  is  quite 
natural." 

The  skipper  retreated  to  the  bench,  glowering. 
"Romance?  What's  that?" 

"I  know,  pa."  "Hands"  had  been  a  year  in 
high  school  down  home  on  the  Cape.  "Same's 
excitement — Romance  is." 

John  thrust  in  with  a  bawl  of  derision,  deep 
like  his  father's.  "Aw,  you  gimme  a  pain.  You 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Romance 
is  a  movin'  pitcher,  ain't  it,  cook?" 

"Well— not  exactly." 

For  the  first  time  since  this  inexplicable  fellow 
had  joined  the  Valerie,  Justin  Jason  had  heard 
him  hesitate. 

"What  is  it,  then?"  he  demanded,  with  a  new 
found  dominance.  "Sing  out!" 

"Well,  it's  hard  to-  Well,  listen!"  The 
man  edged  forward,  so  that  the  light  picked  out 
his  flabby  face,  livid  from  long  stewing  in  galley 
steam.  He  indicated  the  boys  with  a  quick 
gesture.  ' '  Their  mother — ' ' 

"Dead,  ten  year,"  the  master  snapped  him  off. 

"Yes — yes — but  when  you  were  courting  her." 

"Oh!  Same's  fighting  a  lot  of  fellows.  I 
see." 

"Naw,  naw,  pa."  "Hands"  wagged  an  im 
patient  head.  "It's  same's  going  round  a  lot — 
seeing  life — colored  lights  and  dance  tunes  and— 
The  vocal  burden  passed  mysteriously  across 
the  forecastle,  and  now  it  was  the  shadow  behind 

282 


"ROMANCE" 

the  ladder  that  spoke,  quietly,  as  though  to 
himself. 

" — Dance  tunes,  yes.  And  women  in  soft 
gowns  dancing  to  them.  You  can  see  them 
passing  this  way  and  that  and  hear  their  voices 
through  green  fronds.  Or  a  cab  through  the 
Park,  or  through  a  crowded  street,  bumping  just 
a  little  when  you  come  to  the  car-tracks.  Or 
a  fire  in  the  grate  when  you  come  home.  Or 
clean,  new  money  counted  right  and  pushed  out 
through  the  wicket.  Or  the  Head  coming  into 
the  cage  with  his  hand  stretched  out — and 
nothing  the  matter  with  your  books.  Nothing 
the  matter  with  your  books." 

There  was  silence  again.  When  it  had  en 
dured  perhaps  a  minute  Justin  Jason  rose 
nervously,  climbed  the  ladder,  and  stood  on 
deck.  Far  off  through  the  lofty  grottoes  of  the 
city  an  Elevated  train  sang  on  a  curve.  The 
slow,  warm,  choking  wind  came  out  of  those 
canons,  bearing  a  whisper  of  beaten  pavements, 
and  a  confused  and  multitudinous  murmur  of 
voices,  and  a  memory  of  green  things  breaking 
ground  far  away  in  the  Fens.  Justin  Jason 
turned  to  his  two  sons,  who  had  followed  him  up, 
watchfully  discreet. 

"Well — there's  only  one  thing  I  want  you  to 
remember,"  he  said.  " These  fish  starts  going 
onto  the  dock  at  five  sharp,  and  I  don't  want  no 
dead  ones  round  this  vessel,  or  they'll  get  what's 
coming  to  'em  good  and  plenty." 

283 


LAND'S  END 

He  leaned  on  the  rail  and  watched  them  go, 
crawling,  swinging,  leaping,  diminishing  across 
the  huddled  decks  toward  the  dock.  After  that 
he  stepped  to  the  companion  and  called  down. 

"Cook!  Was  that  you  was  talking  about 
same's  a  traveling-man?  A  man  like  that  sees  a 
lot  of  life.  One  was  telling  me  once.  Eh?" 

Then,  receiving  no  answer,  he  turned  aft  with 
a  sudden  determination,  descended  the  ladder  to 
his  state-room,  opened  the  locker  where  his  own 
"shore  kit"  lay,  and  took  down  from  the  shelf 
above  it  the  blue  razor-box  and  the  soap  and 
brush. 

in 

A  fine  lifting  wind  came  off  the  Adriatic  and 
ruffled  the  beaches  where  the  naked  children 
splashed,  shining  like  angels  of  pearl  under  the 
sun.  A  dozen  old  men  sat  on  the  foreshore  above, 
their  capes  fallen  from  their  shoulders  and  their 
hats  cast  carelessly  at  their  feet,  for  the  "First 
Green"  was  stirring  that  far-off  land.  One  of  the 
old  men  recounted  an  episode  in  lively  panto 
mime — a  blood-warming  episode — he  had  been 
young  once.  His  toothless  gums  flickered  when 
he  laughed.  Above  these  again,  where  the  village 
dwellings  filed  along  the  cobbled  street,  young 
women  paced  singly  or  in  pairs,  rallying  one 
another  in  graphic  gesture,  because  they  were 
not  able  to  keep  their  eyes  ashore.  And  out  there 
on  the  lagoon  the  fishing-boats  rode  in  a  gorgeous 

284 


"ROMANCE" 

black-and-white  cluster,  draped  to  the  peaks 
with  nets,  for  all  the  world  like  merchants  from 
the  Orient  with  .their  goods  over  their  shoul 
ders.  And  there,  too,  came  the  young  men,  wad 
ing  through  the  shallows,  deep-colored,  finely 
muscled,  the  curves  on  their  wet  legs  catching 
up  white  flares  from  the  water.  One  of  them 
turned  and  faced  the  thin  girl  who  coughed 
behind  her  hand  when  no  one  watched.  His 
brown  chest  was  open  to  the  air;  he  smiled,  his 
teeth  incredibly  white  under  the  black  shot  of 
his  mustache;  he  tossed  his  curls  back  with  an 
exuberant  splendor  and  held  aloft  a  great, 
shimmering  fish.  "Come,"  he  seemed  to  cry, 
though  no  words  came  out  of  his  moving  lips. 
"Come  out  of  the  ends  of  the  blowing  Spring. 
Come  and  eat  this  fish  with  me.  We  will  put 
brown  in  your  cheeks,  coughing  girl,  and  gladness 
in  your  feet.  Come!" 

And  then  the  whole  vision  was  gone,  swallowed 
in  the  arbitrary  night  of  the  "  Photoplayhouse" ; 
the  girl's  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  hands,  stretched 
out  impulsively,  found  only  a  varnished  seat- 
back.  She  fell  to  coughing  once  more  in  the  rank 
air,  so  violently  that  more  than  one  shadowy, 
impatient  head  turned  in  her  direction.  But 
she  did  not  care.  On  the  seat-back  before  her 
was  a  contrivance  of  metal  with  two  slots  in  its 
upper  side,  one  marked  "Bonbons"  and  the 
other  "Caramels."  Almost  unconsciously  her 
fingers  strayed  to  the  bottom  of  the  box  and 

285 


LAND'S  END 

jiggled  it  slightly.  Once  upon  a  time  she  had 
done  this  accidentally  and  the  thing  had  flown 
open  with  an  ecstatic  pop.  She  liked  to  think 
that  one  day  there  would  be  another.  She 
always  held  her  breath  a  little  at  the  test. 

Her  hands  dropped  in  her  lap  and  she  began 
to  weep  without  any  sound.  She  was  not  think 
ing  about  anything  in  the  world,  not  even  of  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  logical  reason  for  her 
weeping.  She  ought  to  go  home.  The  "  Evacua 
tion  Day  Parade "  was  announced  on  the  screen. 
She  had  seen  the  parade  and  the  picture.  Her 
neighbor  on  the  right  began  to  fidget  and  glanced 
covertly  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  whispered,  after  a 
moment  of  indecision. 

She  had  lived  in  the  city  long  enough  to  know 
that  she  must  not  answer  his  question.  This 
had  been  impressed  upon  her  a  great  many 
times. 

"Nothing,"  she  murmured.  She  remembered, 
with  a  curious  lack  of  dismay,  that  this  was  just 
what  "they"  were  always  looking  for — an 
"opening."  Any  exchange  of  words,  beyond  a 
reference  to  the  police,  constituted  an  "open 
ing."  But  somehow,  to-night,  she  could  not 
seem  to  care.  She  even  speculated,  with  a  queer 
stoppage  in  her  breath,  as  to  what  his  next  move 
was  to  be.  She  could  not  make  much  of  him  in 
the  dim  light,  beyond  a  general  tendency  toward 
stoutness,  a  pointed  mustache,  and  his  hair 

286 


"  ROMANCE  " 

brushed  up  in  a  slick  swirl  over  one  temple.  A 
typical,  low-caste  "  masher,"  at  any  rate. 

He  appeared  ill  at  ease.  He  folded  his  arms 
and  immediately  unfolded  them  to  beat  a  tattoo 
on  the  seat  with  his  finger-tips.  He  peered  down 
at  her,  and  then,  as  though  to  cover  his  indis 
cretion,  hunched  about  ponderously  to  cross  one 
knee  over  the  other.  She  was  aware  of  a  hand 
groping  in  front  of  her,  and  a  click  of  metal 
touching  metal. 

"D'you  know  how  to  work  this?"  he  whispered 
in  her  ear. 

She  took  the  nickel  from  his  fingers,  slipped  it 
in  the  slot  marked  "  Caramels,"  turned  the  ex 
plosive  disk,  and  held  the  carton  out  to  him. 

"Here,"  she  murmured,  jogging  his  hand  a 
little  when  he  did  not  take  it.  She  looked  up  and 
found  his  eyes  intent  upon  the  screen,  where  a 
brass  band  rolled  forward  with  mute  gesticula 
tions  and  vanished  out  of  the  bottom  of  the 
picture. 

"Looky  't  them  gentlemen  in  cabs,"  the  man 
soliloquized,  under  his  breath.  "Them's  same's 
cabs,  ain't  they?" 

"Here — here's  your  candy." 

He  pushed  the  carton  off  with  an  impatient 
palm.  "Don't  like  candy,"  he  muttered.  "Go 
on,  eat  it,  miss.  I'm  sick  of  candy." 

The  rejected  carton  dropped  in  her  lap.  She 
sat  up  a  little  more  stiffly  and  stared  at  the  head 
of  the  frowsy  woman  in  front,  and  the  feather  of 

287 


LAND'S  END 

color  that  always  lay  along  her  cheek-bones 
spread  out  to  cover  her  temples.  When  she  had 
first  appeared  at  the  Great  White  Store,  a  blond 
floor-walker  had  slipped  a  box  of  chocolates 
under  the  ribbons  on  her  counter,  and  she  had 
thrown  it  on  the  floor  ostentatiously,  because  the 
whispering  women  had  told  her  why  he  put  it 
there.  That  was  before  she  had  taken  to  cough 
ing.  Of  a  sudden,  a  bitter  and  unreasoning  rancor 
at  those  whisperers  swept  over  her.  The  frowsy 
head  in  front  waved  and  shattered  in  the  rush  of 
her  hot  tears.  Oh,  why  did  she  have  to  know? 
Her  rebellious  fingers  ran  over  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  carton.  It  was  not  that  there  was  candy 
in  it — poor,  tasteless  stuff  at  best;  no,  it  was 
something  quite  apart  from  that. 

She  heard  the  man's  voice,  subdued  and  ram 
bling. 

"Must  be  sport  riding  in  a  cab  like  that. 
Looky  't  the  cushions  in  the  cockpit  there — bet 
they're  soft's  anything."  He  began  putting 
questions,  presumably  as  a  matter  of  strategy  to 
follow  the  "opening."  Her  mind  was  dull  and 
acquiescent,  and  his  queries  ran  in  with  a  stream 
of  interrogation  reaching  back  to  the  ends  of  her 
memory :  "Is  this  real  satin?  Was  this  honestly 
forty  cents  before  the  sale?  Will  this  match  in 
daylight?"  .  .  .  "D'you  think  they  like  it  bump- 
in'  over  the  car-tracks — ever  rid  in  a  cab  same's 
that,  eh?"- 

"I— I  feel  very  fai-n— t— " 

288 


"ROMANCE" 

She  realized  dimly  that  her  own  lips  had 
moved  to  the  last.  As  dimly  she  was  aware  of 
something  pinching  her  right  arm  roughly  and 
of  being  miraculously  in  the  aisle.  The  light 
marking  an  exit  advanced  upon  her  like  a  gory 
moon. 

Once  outside,  where  the  arc-lights  made  a 
narrow  day,  Justin  Jason  allowed  his  burden  to 
droop  on  the  ledge  of  a  convenient  shop-window, 
took  off  his  derby,  mopped  his  head  all  over  with 
a  red  handkerchief,  and  swore  distractedly  under 
his  breath.  A  small  boy,  crying  the  evening 
papers,  came  around  a  corner  and  stopped  short 
with  half  a  head-line  still  in  his  mouth  and  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  limp  figure.  He  gestured 
feverishly  to  another  boy  across  the  alley,  and 
then,  as  though  cleared  of  duty,  fell  into  a  more 
permanent  attitude. 

"Wife  rick,  mister?" 

Justin  Jason  glared  at  the  boy  and  mopped  the 
back  of  his  neck.  He  became  aware  of  an  in 
creasing  murmur  behind  his  back  and  a  shuffling 
of  many  feet.  Some  one  was  telling  some  one 
else  in  a  high  whisper  that  the  gentleman's  wife 
had  fainted,  and  from  the  corner  of  his  right  eye 
he  observed  a  small,  spare  man  with  side-whiskers 
jabbing  a  thumb  up  the  street  and  repeating, 
" Drug-store — drug-store" — like  some  obscure 
incantation.  Several  people  thought  of  the  word 
"doctor"  at  the  same  moment;  one  or  two  of  the 
word  "physician." 

19  289 


LAND'S  END 

"You  make  me  tired,"  Justin  Jason  mumbled 
in  his  throat,  "the  hull  of  you."  His  spine  tingled 
with  the  burden  of  all  those  curious  eyes.  He 
stared  down  heavily  at  the  tip  of  one  shoe,  then 
up  at  the  gilded  legend  over  the  shop-window. 
"  Wish  t'  God  I  was  aboard!" 

The  girl  had  roused  a  little.  He  became  aware 
of  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  glinting  unnaturally 
in  the  hard  light  like  some  bluish  metal;  but  he 
avoided  them  by  finding  a  milliner's  sign  still 
higher  on  the  building.  A  hand  touched  his 
elbow.  He  shook  it  off  roughly,  muttering, 
" Sheer  off  there!" 

"None  of  that,  my  friend!"  The  officer's  grip 
tightened.  ' '  You're  blocking  the  street." 

"Oh!"  Justin  Jason  looked  around  at  the 
blue  fellow  with  an  uneasy  humility.  He  pos 
sessed  a  certain  awe  of  the  city  police,  as  of 
something  which  touched  him  but  distantly. 
His  gaze  traveled  back  to  the  shoe-tip,  sullen 
and  nervous. 

"Well — what's  the  matter?  Wife  get  faint  in 
the  pi'tures?  Say!  Speak  up  there!" 

"Ummm!" 

"Look  here,  man!"  The  officer  jogged  his 
elbow  impatiently.  "Come  out  of  it.  Do 
something!  Get  a  cab  and  take  'er  home.  .  .  . 
Hey!  Taxi!"  He  raised  his  free  arm  and 
beckoned  across  the  throng.  "Over  here,  taxi. 
.  .  .  Out  of  the  way  there!  Let  him  through! 
Get  off  the  curb  there.  .  .  .  Here,  lady,  up  with 

290 


"ROMANCE" 

you — just  a  step.  Help  on  the  other  side  there, 
mister.  That's  the  eye !  In  you  go!  What's  the 
address?  Speak  up.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  never  mind, 
then.  Driver,  get  'em  out  of  here.  Stand  back 
there.  Stand  back!  You  guys  deef?" 


IV 

Justin  Jason  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  purring 
gloom,  staring  through  the  glass  at  the  driver's 
back.  He  had  a  feeling  that  the  man  was  going 
ahead  too  fast  through  the  crowded  street.  A 
dray  laden  with  beer-kegs  shot  out  of  nowhere 
and  towered  close  ahead ;  he  felt  himself  shunted 
over  the  smooth,  humpy  cushion;  the  dray  was 
no  more;  his  finger-nails  relaxed  in  his  palms;  he 
had  not  uttered  a  sound. 

For  the  moment  he  had  almost  forgotten  the 
girl.  He  turned  his  head  covertly  and  found  her 
lying  back  in  the  other  corner,  a  shadowy 
presence  hardly  visible  save  for  the  gray  oval  of 
her  face,  out  of  which  her  eyes  were  watching 
him,  unnaturally  large  and  intent. 

His  discomfort  increased.  '  He  resumed  his  stiff 
contemplation  of  the  driver's  back,  but  still  he 
could  not  shake  off  those  watching  eyes,  so 
motionless  and  vigilant  and  queer.  What  was 
wrong  with  the  woman,  anyhow? 

He  muttered  aloud,  "What's  the  matter?" 
She  did  not  answer. 

The  cab  edged  out  of  the  traffic  and  halted  in 

291 


LAND'S  END 

an  open  space  beside  a  church,  and  the  driver, 
getting  down,  came  to  open  the  door  on  the 
man's  side. 

"Well,  now,  whereto?" 

Where  to?  Justin  Jason  had  not  thought  of 
that.  He  fingered  his  chin  and  scowled  and 
temporized:  " Well— well—  But  at  that  the 
girl's  weight  came  against  his  shoulder  and  he 
had  a  side  vision  of  her  white  face  peering  out 
at  the  man. 

" Hemlock  Street!  Two-ten  Hemlock  Street!" 
There  was  a  tight  breathlessness  about  it  that 
spoke  of  panic. 

The  door  clicked  shut  and  the  motor  bucked 
and  hammered  with  the  trouble  of  starting. 
Justin  Jason  was  conscious  of  the  weight  with 
drawn  gradually  from  his  shoulder.  He  glanced 
around,  but  even  that  faint  loom  of  her  face  was 
invisible  now,  blotted  out  by  her  arms.  She  was 
crumpled  down  in  a  little  heap  of  woe  in  the 
corner,  weeping,  not  silently  this  time,  but  with 
the  wild  revulsion  of  a  child  kept  home  at 
the  last  moment  from  a  long-promised  party. 
The  man  groped  and  found  her  shoulder  and 
shook  it. 

"For  God's  sake!"  he  burst  out.  "For  God's 
sake,  what's  ailing  of  you?" 

A  pencil  of  light  found  its  way  along  the  wall 
and  picked  out  her  face,  thrust  out  at  him,  wet 
and  rebellious. 

"What's  ailing  me?    My  father  and  mother, 
293 


"ROMANCE" 

and  their  fathers  and  mothers,  and  theirs.  Did 
you  ever  see  another  night  like  this?  Tell  me!" 

He  peered  down  at  her  with  an  uneasy  feel 
ing  that  she  was  somehow  not  "just  right." 
"Mmmm,"  he  floundered.  "Fair  weather  tj- 
night." 

She  caught  him  up:  "Fair  weather!"  She 
leaned  closer  and  plucked  his  sleeve.  "Fair 
weather!  And  I'm  going  home  to  Mrs.  Dorgan's 
boarding-house !  Did  you  ever  live  in  a  boarding- 
house?  Tell  me,  did  you  ever  live  in  a  boarding- 
house?" 

"No — no — that  is  I  knew  a  man  once  that  did. 
Had  some  high  times  there — that's  what  he  told 
me." 

"Yes — yes.     High  times!" 

She  turned  away  to  look  out  of  the  open 
window.  A  procession  of  trees  was  passing  on 
that  side,  and  beyond,  in  an  open  space,  a  light 
reflected  in  a  pool  of  water,  thin  and  shattery, 
and  beyond  that  again  the  down-town  mesa  gave 
off  its  pale  exhalations  to  the  sky.  Against  this 
faintly  luminous  mat  the  man  could  see  the 
silhouette  of  her  profile,  immobile,  almost  le 
thargic. 

She  had  not  answered  his  question,  and  after 
a  little  while  he  forgot  about  it  himself.  Her 
languor  communicated  itself  to  him,  his  shoulders 
sank  back  against  the  yielding  cushions,  and  he 
crossed  one  foot  over  the  other. 

"This  is  sport,"  he  thought  to  himself.    " Say, 

293 


LAND'S  END 

this  is  a  lot  of  sport/'  his  lips  repeated,  with  an 
anxious  emphasis.  He  had  lost  a  good  deal  of 
time.  He  sank  a  little  further  into  the  cushions, 
flung  an  elbow  over  the  sill  of  the  window  at  his 
side,  and  began  to  look  about.  A  ribbon  of  light 
drifted  past,  flicking  interminable  foot-passengers 
into  limbo,  along  with  a  hand-organ  couple  and 
a  fugitive  newsboy  who  fluttered  a  blur  at  him. 
And  then  there  came  an  abrupt  glare,  a  screeching 
of  car-brakes,  a  motorman's  angry  wail,  and  the 
cushions  jounced  and  squeaked  slightly  as  the 
tires  beneath  them  threw  the  car-tracks  away. 

"  Like  that,  eh?" 

The  girl  did  not  appear  to  hear.  He  returned 
to  his  own  outlook,  shifted  his  feet,  muttered 
with  studied  enthusiasm,  "Say  now,  this  is 
something  like,"  and  was  in  the  act  of  rummaging 
his  pockets  for  a  possible  cigar  when  his  attention 
was  taken  by  an  illuminated  disk  staring  at  him 
through  the  forward  pane.  He  regarded  it  with 
increasing  wonder  as  a  numeral  in  a  tiny  oblong 
window  snapped  out  of  sight  and  was  replaced 
immediately  by  another. 

"Now  that's  a  piece  o'  gear,"  he  puzzled. 
He  nudged  the  young  woman's  elbow  and  in 
dicated  the  affair  with  a  thumb. 

"What's  it  for?"  he  questioned. 

"What?  Oh,  the  meter!"  She  studied  him 
for  a  moment,  half  suspicious,  half  amused. 
"That's  what  tells  you  how  much  you  have  to 


pay." 


294 


"ROMANCE" 

"Oh!    Hmmm!    I  see!" 

The  thing  fascinated  him  with  its  hard,  shiny 
face.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gazed  out 
of  the  window  with  an  attempt  at  luxuriousness, 
but  for  all  he  could  do  his  eyes  would  sneak  back, 
and  there  the  numeral  had  changed  again, 
mysteriously.  He  was  not  a  stingy  man,  this 
Justin  Jason ;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  never  cared 
enough  about  money,  as  such,  to  get  very  far 
ahead.  But  this  was  another  thing — this  in 
human  and  inexorable  business  of  addition. 
And  then,  there  was  no  telling  when  it  would 
end.  If  only  he  had  some  idea  where  this  street 
of  hers  was.  ...  He  leaned  out  of  the  window, 
moved  by  a  vague  impulse,  but  ahead  of  him  the 
twin  thread  of  the  street  lamps  ran  straight 
away  and  converged  into  one  luminous  point. 
His  hand  slipped  cautiously  into  a  trousers 
pocket.  There  was  some  small  change  there, 
and  three  bills,  ten-dollar  bills,  he  remembered. 
He  cast  a  quick  glance  at  his  companion,  made 
sure  she  was  not  looking,  and  transferred  one  of 
the  bills  to  the  opposite  pocket. 

"There,"  he  breathed.  "Can't  be  more  'n 
that,  anyhow." 

He  had  a  sense  of  relief  at  this  definite  setting 
of  a  limit,  and  of  mild  triumph,  feeling  that  he 
had  somehow  outmaneuvered  the  shiny  con 
traption.  He  had  lost  more  time,  though.  He 
settled  his  elbow  on  the  sill  once  more  and  fingered 
the  tips  of  his  mustache. 

295 


LAND'S  END 

"This  is  all  right,  ain't  it?"  he  spoke  across  to 
the  girl. 

She  opened  her  lips  and  then  closed    them 
without  a  sound.    A  frightened  look  came  into 
her  face  and  she  jerked  about  to  study   the 
passing  fronts. 
'   "Oh  dear!    Oh  dear!" 

The  man  felt  her  hand  fluttering  on  his  wrist. 

"Stop  him — please!    Right  away!" 

"Wha—    What  for?" 

"Quick!    Oh,  why  didn't  I  think!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  gasped,  thoroughly 
bewildered.  "Here!  Here!" 

The  girl's  knuckles  were  pounding  wildly  on 
the  front  glass.  The  driver  made  no  sign,  but 
the  machine  swerved  abruptly  toward  the  curb 
and  came  to  a  halt.  The  man  twisted  round  to 
speak  through  the  window. 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"We'll  get  out  at  the  corner.  You  needn't 
go  into — wait — we'll  get  out  here.  It's  only  a 
step." 

She  swung  open  the  door  and  stepped  out 
unsteadily,  casting  anxious  eyes  this  way  and 
that  along  the  side\valk.  What  if  she  hadn't 
thought?  What  if  she  had  actually  driven  up  to 
Mrs.  Dorgan's  boarding-house  in  a  taxi,  with  a 
man?  Supposing  Mrs.  Dorgan  had  seen — or  any 
of  the  Dorgan  inmates,  for  that  matter, — the 
nasty,  respectable  little  Dorgan  inmates  such  as 

she  herself.    She  might  have  been  put  out.    She 

296 


"ROMANCE" 

had  known  girls  ...  A  sudden  wave  of  self- 
hatred  swept  over  her.  She  was  so  puny  with 
her  anxious  calculations  in  this  lusty,  wide-flung 
night,  so  contemptible,  like  an  infinitesimal 
renegade  in  the  train  of  spring.  A  slight  dizziness 
followed  her  fright ;  she  sank  against  a  lamp-post 
and  coughed  and  giggled. 

Justin  Jason,  busy  with  the  cabman,  glanced 
about  uneasily.  He  took  off  his  hat,  fanned  his 
face,  and  counted  the  bills  that  the  man  laid  in 
his  palm. 

"And  thirty  cents,"  he  prompted.  "The  log 
there  stands  one-seventy." 

The  fellow  stared  down  at  him  with  an  ex 
pression  of  faint  surprise. 

"I  'ain't  got  any  silver  to-night." 

"Well — what  we  going  to  do,  I  wonder?" 

Justin  Jason  shuffled  his  feet  and  cast  another 
worried  glance  at  his  companion. 

The  cabman  slammed  the  door  shut,  rattled 
a  small  lever  abstractedly,  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky. 

"Some  other  time,"  he  suggested. 

"That's  right — some  other  time."  -lust in 
Jason  took  out  the  red  handkerchief,  mopped  his 
face,  and  watched  the  glossy  vehicle  move  off, 
with  a  sense  of  relief,  and,  at  the  same  moment, 
of  depression  and  regret.  He  had  missed  most 
of  it.  He  had  not  been  able  to  give  this  thin ti;  of 
the  cook's  a  fair  trial.  "Some  other  time," 

perhaps.    He  turned. 

297 


LAND'S  END 

"Which  way  now?"  he  asked. 

"You've  been  awful  good,"  she  evaded.  "You 
don't  know  how  good.  Please  don't  bother  to 
come  any  farther.  It's  just  a  step,  and  I — I 


can — " 


He  broke  in  with  a  deprecatory  explosion. 

"Bother!  Well,  guess  it  won't  tire  me  too 
much!"  He  was  amazed  to  hear  himself  guffaw 
ing.  Somehow,  without  any  particular  effort  on 
his  part,  affairs  had  come  suddenly  into  hand. 
He  squared  his  shoulders,  twisted  his  mustache, 
and  when  the  girl  faltered,  "but — but  listen- 
he  swept  her  hesitation  out  of  the  way  with  a 
splendid  gesture. 

"But  nothing!     Come  along!" 

It  was  exactly  so  that  the  big  bronzed  fellow 
had  looked  at  her  out  of  the  Photoplayhouse 
screen.  The  discovery  made  her  gulp  a  little, 
and  something  turned  over  somewhere  inside  of 
her,  something  that  had  always  been  wrong.  She 
could  not  speak  just  then,  but  indicated  the  di 
rection  by  a  nod,  slipped  her  hand  into  the  crook 
of  his  arm,  and  smiled  up  at  him. 

Justin  Jason  carried  his  arm  with  a  careful 
rigidity.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  walking  in 
this  fashion ;  it  appealed  to  him  as  rather  idiotic, 
and  at  the  same  time  curiously  pleasurable- 
even  more  pleasurable  when  the  fingers  on  his 
biceps  tightened  with  an  excess  of  nervousness. 

"Do  you  remember  that  picture  with  the 
boats  in  it?"  There  was  a  flutter  in  the  girl's 

298 


"ROMANCE" 

voice.  "  And  the  fish?  I  was  just — just  wonder 
ing—  Please  would  you  mind  telling  me  what 
you  do?  your — your  life?" 

He  felt  his  face  flaming.  He  walked  on  without 
answering,  his  eyes  doggedly  ahead,  pretending 
he  had  not  heard.  Perhaps  she  would  not  ask 
again.  At  her  gentle  urge  on  his  elbow  he  rounded 
a  corner  where  a  delicatessen  shop  threw  fans  of 
light  across  the  sidewalk,  and  came  into  a  de 
serted,  high- walled  street,  the  houses  in  it  all 
alike,  a  crumpled  newspaper,  tumbling  over  and 
over  in  a  gutter,  the  only  object  stirring  in  its 
arid  length. 

Not  far  from  the  corner  a  ground-floor  window 
was  half  open,  on  account  of  the  new  weather, 
and  a  man  was  singing  inside.  The  song  was  an 
extremely  popular  one,  the  accompanying  piano 
wanted  tuning  badly,  but  the  singer  did  not 
appear  to  mind  these  details  so  long  as  the  stream 
of  creation  went  forward  unfailing. 

Justin  Jason  halted,  glad  of  the  diversion,  for  he 
was  still  fearful  of  the  repeated  question. 

"That's  nice,  ain't  it?"  he  mused.  He  stopped 
and  peered  into  the  room,  squinting  through  the 
leaves  of  a  rubber-plant  in  the  window  with  an 
unabashed  curiosity.  He  could  get  little  more 
than  a  general  impression  of  what  was  going  on, 
a  kind  of  colored  mosaic  of  festivity. 

The  singing  man  broke  off  and  there  followed 
the  screech  of  a  piano-stool  as  he  swung  round. 

"You  play  that  'Hurly-Burly,'  Miss  Jenkins, 

299 


LAND'S  END 

and  111  show  you  a  new  step,  something  I  saw 
them  doing  down  at  Prince  Hall  last  night.  It's 
a  marvel.  .  .  .  Say!  Where's  the  fudge  gone? 
Who  swiped  the  fudge?" 

A  chorus  of  female  voices  came  tumbling  out 
of  the  window,  excited  and  protesting;  one  higher 
and  shallower  than  the  rest  obtruded. 

"Mr.  Rosenfuhg's  got  it  behind  him  on  the 
sofa  there.  I  saw  him." 

The  colored  mosaic  shifted  pattern  and  there 
came  out  the  lively,  good-humored  tumult  of  a 
scuffle,  and  then  some  one  shuffled  on  carpet  to  a 
chattery  melody. 

"Dancing,  eh?  Say!"  Justin  Jason  looked 
down  at  his  companion  and  jerked  a  thumb 
toward  the  rubber-plant.  "Say,  is  that  there  a 
frond?" 

The  girl  laughed  happily,  as  though  he  had 
made  a  great  joke,  and  held  his  arm  tighter. 
"Why?"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  I  dunno." 

He  edged  forward,  encroaching  upon  the  grass- 
plot  in  his  excitement.  Here,  beyond  a  doubt, 
was  the  thing  of  which  the  cook  had  spoken. 
"Say!"  he  breathed,  with  a  furtive  enthusiasm. 
"Be  sport  to  go  in  there." 

She  laughed  again,  this  time  not  so  happily. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me,"  she  reverted, 
shaking  his  arm  with  a  gentle  insistence.  He 
had  a  side-vision  of  her  face,  held  up  to  him 
with  a  light  on  it  of  a  desperate  revolt.  "You 

300 


"ROMANCE" 

must  be  something.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what 
makes  me  so  silly — but  the  way  you  look— 
and  act — ': 

His  eyes  traveled  along  the  barren  thorough 
fare,  with  its  dusty,  diminishing  lamps  and  its 
lone  newspaper  tumbling  in  the  gutter,  and  re 
turned  again  to  the  window,  an  inconceivable, 
voluptuous  garden  hanging  in  a  desert.  And 
this  time,  instead  of  writhing  at  her  question,  he 
smiled. 

"  Guess,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I— I  couldn't— " 

"Go  on  and  guess,"  he  commanded  her. 

"Well — you—  Oh,  you  live  somewhere  else. 
Not  here — no,  some  other  wonderful  place.  You 
see  other  people  and  other  things — and — and 
you  take  your  life  in  your  hands — because  there 
is  danger." 

Her  eyes,  shining  in  the  checkered  light,  were 
begging  close  to  his.  He  smiled,  showing  his 
white  teeth,  for  now  he  was  on  the  very  threshold 
of  the  cook's  enchantment. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"You  go  and  come,"  she  went  on.  "Your  fcvt 
are  free.  Women — women  are  crazy  about  you— 

Her  fingers  pulled  at  the  cloth  of  his  sleeve  and 
he  would  have  marked  a  sudden  heaviness  in  her 
voice  at  the  last,  had  his  brain  not  been  reeling  a 
little  with  the  subtle  wine  of  adventure. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded. 

"And  you—    Oh,  tell  me!" 
301 


LAND'S  END 

"  Well — aw,  nothing — I'm  nothing  but  a  travel 
ing-man/'  he  lied  without  sin,  for  Carnival  was 
abroad  to-night.  He  did  not  look  at  her;  he 
threw  off  his  information  in  a  casual  tone — a 
paltry  matter;  he  feigned  an  interest  in  the 
rubber-plant  which,  for  the  moment,  he  did  not 
see.  When  she  spoke,  he  tasted  the  sweet  flattery 
of  her  unbelief. 

"You — you  are!" 

He  looked  around  quickly,  for  her  hand  had 
left  his  arm,  and  found  her  half-way  up  the  steps 
of  the  house. 

"We  going  in  there?  Say!7'  It  was  now  his 
turn  for  incredulity. 

"I  live  here."  She  seemed  to  have  trouble 
with  her  breathing.  "I — I —  You've  been 
awful  kind.  I  wish  you  knew  how —  Good 
night!" 

She  was  gone  so  suddenly  behind  the  storm- 
door  that  he  had  not  moved.  He  turned  dully 
to  the  window  once  more  and  heard  the  small 
tumult  of  her  arrival  within.  The  young  man 
who  had  sung  cried,  " Hullo,  tardy!"  and  moved 
across  the  bright  pattern,  his  purple  cravat 
skipping  from  chink  to  chink.  "Mrs.  Dorgan! 
Oh,  Mrs.  Dorgan!  Anything  left  from  supper? 
Oh,  just  this  once.  Be  a  sport.  .  .  .  Maude, 
eat  a  piece  of  fudge  to  Poverty.  I'm  fired. 
Yep.  That  fool  of  an  editor  couldn't  get  it 
through  his  wooden  dome — couldn't  see  the  color 
of  the  thing.  Oh,  marvelous  color  and  movement 

302 


"ROMANCE" 

and  a  background  of  storm.  Immense,  Maude, 
immense!  Well,  here's  to  Grub  Street!  Say, 
where  you  been,  girl?  You're  as  white  as  a  pillow 
case.  Fagged  out?" 

The  fellow's  patter  streamed  out  of  the  win 
dow,  bustled  vacantly  about  the  watcher's  ear 
drums,  and  dissipated  itself  in  the  long  street. 

"I  bet  she's  got  a  case  on  him,"  the  man 
mumbled  heavily. 

By  and  by  a  policeman  appeared  in  the  vista, 
twirling  his  night-stick  lazily.  Observing  his 
approach,  Justin  Jason  stepped  from  the  grass 
and  moved  along  the  walk  in  the  direction  of  the 
delicatessen  shop.  The  tumbling  newspaper 
kept  him  company  for  a  passing  instant,  then, 
outpaced,  gave  up  and  leaned  against  a  brick. 
Coming  on  behind,  the  officer  paused  to  listen 
to  a  fresh  burst  of  melody  emerging  from  the 
fifth  window  from  the  corner,  holding  his  night 
stick  poised  in  the  air,  not  unlike  a  flaming  sword. 


The  cook  stirred  slightly  and  stretched  his 
legs,  which  were  cramped  from  sitting  long  on 
the  schooner's  afterhouse. 

"  They're  beginning  to  put  out  the  lights,"  he 
mused.  "Not  all  of  them,  of  course.  They  leave 
enough  in  the  streets  so  honest  men  can  go  home 
to  their  fathers'  houses.  And  that's  a  joke  on 
them — because  that  is  exactly  Romance — and 

303 


LAND'S  END 

they  don't  know  it.  Romance — to  have  a  light 
street  safer  than  a  dark  street.'7 

He  got  up  suddenly  and  moved  forward  along 
the  outer  rail  with  a  habitual  noiselessness.  From 
the  shadow  of  the  foremast  he  watched  a  somber 
figure  draw  in  across  the  cluttered  vessels,  hoist 
laboriously  to  the  after  deck,  stand  for  a  long 
time  brooding  over  the  dark  and  empty  harbor, 
then  disappear  down  the  after  companionway. 

"I  wonder  if  he  found  it,"  the  cook  put  to  the 
sky.  The  infinitesimal  light  of  the  stars  falling 
on  his  face  discovered  a  sort  of  haggard  mirth. 

"Of  course  he  didn't  find  it.  He  might — 
to-morrow  or  yesterday.  It's  not  here,  you  know; 
it's  over  there — where  the  other  fellow  is." 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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30Apr'52jK 

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'58ESf 


R- 

SEP  17  1992 


LD  21-100m-ll,'49(B7146sl6)476 


YB  69562 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


